The Voice of Treason

Who said this today? Was it:

A. Scott McClellan, White House spokesman, on behalf of the Bush administration, in response to Iran’s removal of U.N. seals at uranium enrichment research facilities and its announcement that it would resume “research and development” on producing uranium fuel?

Or

B. Senator Arlen Specter (R-PA) in response to Senator Edward M. Kennedy (D-MA) after 1) Kennedy threatened to subpoena CAP (Concerned Alumni of Princeton) documents that could prove Judge Samuel A. Alito is a bigot and 2) Senator Patrick J. Leahy (D-VT) put his hand on Specter’s arm to prevent him from reaching across Leahy to bitch slap Kennedy on national TV?

Or

C. The National Italian American Foundation (NIAF) in response to the behavior of Democrats on the Senate Judiciary Committee after Martha Alito - devoted wife of Judge Samuel A. Alito and mother of young Philip and Laura Alito — left the confirmation hearings in tears?

And they say theater is dead in America!

I’m trying to remember a scene in Broadcast News and I’m having trouble. It’s the one where Albert Brooks’ character asks William Hurt’s character - good-looking, but not very sharp - to name the twelve Supreme Court justices. Hurt’s character refuses to name the twelve, Brooks’ character knows he can’t, then points out that there are only nine to further embarrass him. My question is: is that really the scene, or am I imagining it because my mind has gone into shock over the results of a survey that asked 1000 Americans to name the members of SCOTUS?

I’m one of those people who’s easily offended when someone can identify a photo of Britney Spears but doesn’t recognize Colin Powell. Who can’t name the current vice president. I was behind a car yesterday that had a bumper sticker that said something like:

“If you didn’t vote, stop your whining.”

Precisely. And I think a person’s right to an opinion diminishes if he can’t name the candidates. But then I also think a woman should lose her right to vote when she says she’s voting for “the cute one.” So here are the results of that survey:

The percentages of Americans who could name each current justice are as follows:

� Sandra Day O’Connor - 27%
� Clarence Thomas - 21%
� John Roberts - 16%
� Antonin Scalia - 13%
� Ruth Bader Ginsburg - 12%
� Anthony Kennedy - 7%
� David Souter - 5%
� Stephen Breyer - 3%
� John Paul Stevens - 3%

This was a national survey that used a representative sample of 1000 adults nationwide, with a margin of error of plus or minus three percentage points. It was conducted last month for FindLaw.com by Ipsos Public Affairs, and shows that only 43 percent of American adults can name at least one justice, and that fifty-seven percent of Americans can’t name any current U.S. Supreme Court justices. Gee, you’d think after all the fuss about the pubic hair on the Coke can, even the most puerile citizen could name that one guy. Well, it might explain why he came in a close second.

I shouldn’t be surprised, then, when I hear a caller on C-SPAN tell Dick Durbin to do everything in his power to save Americans from this right wing conservative court. Just look at the current justices, the caller, says. They’re all Republicans except for Ruth Bader Ginsburg! This is simply inaccurate.

To be fair, seven were appointed by Republican presidents, but that doesn’t mean the justices are conservative. I’d say it’s fair to categorize Thomas and Scalia to the right of the pack, but if Sandra Day O’Connor is conservative, how is it that every Democrat at the hearings this week is salivating over her? Oh, that’s right - she’s fair.

When I list the justices, I can easily rattle off their names, but I admit that sometimes I hesitate on Kennedy and Stevens. And I think I know why. I don’t remember watching the confirmation hearings for these two. I firmly believe if someone invests the time - the blood, the sweat, and the tears - required to get through these hearings, he will remember the justices easily.

It’s like torture, a car accident, falling off a roof, death of a beloved pet - these things are hard to forget.

Big news day. I woke up around 4:00 A.M. to hear that Dick Cheney had been hospitalized. Then the usual: Got the Sharon and McCloy updates, today’s magic number (11,000), and a reminder that Mother Nature has killed more with snow than the Sago Mine has killed with carbon monoxide.

But what I was really interested in was the Alito confirmation hearings. That’s right. Alito, not Alioto. Senator Durbin says millions of Americans fear Alito’s confirmation. I wonder: Would those be the same millions who, as Harry Belafonte claims, support the “revolution” in Hugo Chavez’ Venezuela?

When the judge finally had the opportunity to get a few words in, he said something that really got my attention. Bells rang. Analysis after the remarks was mixed; some got it, some didn’t.

It’s partly about how we make assumptions. Here’s a nice boy from New Jersey who comes from an Italian immigrant background. His parents are teachers and he is a product of the public school system. Assumption: Roman Catholic, Democrats. (People often assume the same about me.)

But Sam has the opportunity to attend Princeton - a school not far from the neighborhood. And this is where it gets interesting. He’s there in the late Sixties-early Seventies with students who come from much different backgrounds. He says he observed these privileged people acting irresponsibly, and not exhibiting the decency and good sense that he’d witnessed growing up with the less privileged people in his neighborhood in Trenton. Assumption: these kids have had all the advantages, so they should be appreciative and value what they’ve been given.

Again I’m reminded of my own Italian immigrant heritage. My mother always said that her father believed a person required three things in life: good food, good shoes, and a good mattress. There’s a certain simplicity in that. Like Alito says, it suggests a sense of decency and goodness. My mother never heard her parents gripe about how bad things were and how they should just go back to Italy. They knew better. Even though it was the middle of the Great Depression, they were fully aware that life was better here.

And it reminds me of my own college experience. I was there with students who complained bitterly about the high cost of education and how it should be free. They said they couldn’t afford tuition or books, but they always seemed to have enough for clothes, concerts, trips, stereos, beer, and drugs.

I remember taking a Philosophy course my first year in school. I could tell it was agony for most of the students, but I liked it. And so did this pleasant-looking guy with thick, dark hair and blue eyes. He was well-spoken and always had something interesting to say. Sharp kid, I thought.

Sometimes we’d chat afterwards as we walked to our next destination. This kid has class, I thought. He’s articulate and so well-bred. Polite, thoughtful, witty. One day he asked me over for dinner. The first thing I noticed is that he and his roommate lived off campus in a really nice apartment complex. I was in an apartment, too, but it was a building geared towards a student population. Real people lived in their complex. And they had furniture. It wasn’t crates and cement block and wood bookcases. Tableware. Good quality plates, glasses, and utensils, and these people knew how to use them. High-end electronics. Real music. It was the two roommates, a tall, pretty girl with good bones, and me. I knew from the kid’s remarks in class that he was an atheist (why do I always attract these people?), but what I didn’t know was to be discovered during dinner. I’d noticed two bicycles in the apartment. High-priced European touring bikes.

“Oh, those. We bought them for our trip to China.”

It turns out that he and his roommate were both Marxists and spent the evening lecturing me about the plight of the workers. I watched the three of them in their expensive clothes, sipping good wine out of good glasses, and eating food that most students only saw when they went home for the holidays. I couldn’t picture them in drab quilted jackets. We occasionally spoke after that evening.

I’m sure my spoiled little anarchist acquaintance’s heart was in the right place. Like Harry Belafonte. If Harry really supports the revolution, he should immediately put his bourgeois Bel Air property on the market, donate the proceeds to the people of Venezuela, and move to Caracas.

Today-o.

Today T and I walked the dogs through an apartment complex a few blocks from here because our female dog has developed a crush on a cat who lives there. As we were cruising through, I noticed something on a tenant’s patio door. It looked like a standard red stop sign, but it said:

“Santa stop here.”

This was the first time I’d seen such a thing - probably because I don’t have kids - but it reminded me, a child who grew up in a Chicago apartment, that Santa traditionally slides down chimneys to deliver presents and doesn’t climb four flights of stairs. A skeptical kid, I’d question my sister. How exactly does Santa deliver to people who don’t have chimneys? Not to worry, she’d say, there are special rules about that.

This sign suggests that Santa, his sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer are going to land near the tenant’s patio, then Santa is going to jump the wall and break into the apartment through the sliding glass patio door to deliver the goods. There’s something disturbing, to me, about that.

Also disturbing was seeing a Christmas tree that had been moved out onto an upstairs balcony. It’s what I dislike about this time of year: sightings of once live trees, stripped of their finery, and tossed outside to drop what’s left of their needles. It always fills me with such sadness.

You served your purpose, now get the hell out of here. You’ll see them, some still with strands of tinsel, abandoned along the side of the road or in alleys. Some are stuffed in dumpsters or driven out to open fields and tossed out of the back of trucks.

This year, I fear, will probably be worse because the locally owned nursery that always offered free tree recycling has closed its doors. The city is championing a program, but I doubt many people have heard about it. That means that discarded trees, like corpses in New Orleans, will be showing up on the streets of our town for the next few weeks.

A sad reminder, too, that this business has closed. One location is just blocks from here: most of the plants inside my home and out in the yard were purchased there. I always looked forward to their Christmas displays, the opening of their rose gardens in the spring, and the greenhouses that sold so many exotic specimens. When I needed a gift in a hurry I could always count on this place. Every year I’d promise myself that I’d go down there and buy tomato plants. Years came and went and I never got those plants. Typical Cubs fan, I’d always tell myself: Next year - definitely next year.

I drive past it now and wonder about its future. It’s valuable land: what will go in there? And what will happen to the trees that are there? I worry about one in particular: a beautiful Chinese pistache that I’ve admired for over a decade. Will the new business preserve that tree, or will it be ripped from the ground and left in the parking lot, lying on its side, roots exposed? I dread that day.

So why did this business, a fixture in this town, finally close? A sign of the times, I suppose. There are more places, now, that sell plants. People who move here from other states probably shopped at Home Depot or Lowe’s there and feel comfortable doing the same now. The business also determined that people just don’t garden anymore. There was a time that newcomers who moved here from California or the Midwest would try to duplicate their gardens here in the desert. But it’s a hostile environment. After years of planting, digging up dead trees and shrubs, and replanting, most people resign themselves to rock and a few native specimens and leave it at that. And who has that much time to devote to a yard? Low maintenance is the way to go these days. And the new homes that are being built just don’t have large yards. Now all you need is a tree, a couple bushes, a garden sculpture, and you’re done. Set the timer and it’s watered.

But there’s another local nursery still operating in town. It’s not nearby, but I’m going to go there and look at their tomato plants when it’s time. This year, definitely.

I was all geared up to rant about Iran today - especially since I just had a conversation with someone who said:

“Yeah, I really think it’s time we pull outta there.”

Iran will have to wait. Instead, I must take this time to acknowledge those who have recently commented here on the V.O.T. There are a million blogs in the naked city; I’m honored that each of you took the time to stop here, read, and then comment. I always welcome comments. The only problem is that someone will offer an opinion, but if it’s a comment on a past posting, chances are other readers will miss it. I want those who take the time (again, thank you) to visit the V.O.T. to be able to see others’ remarks - whether or not they agree with me. I have not yet censored anyone, nor do I intend to.

So I must take the opportunity today to acknowledge Louise, James, and “opin-e-ion” for their recent contributions. Louise responded to postings on 12/26/05 and 1/4/06; James - new to the V.O.T. - responded on 1/5/06, and “opin-e-ion” - also new - responded on 1/6/06. Welcome James and opin-e-ion!

I urge others who visit the V.O.T. to read their comments. They make some excellent points and have strong “voices.”

I hope to hear from them again soon…and I wouldn’t mind hearing from you, too.

“…And your education! Is not that also social, and determined by the social conditions under which you educate, by the intervention direct or indirect, of society, by means of schools, etc.? The Communists have not intended the intervention of society in education; they do but seek to alter the character of that intervention, and to rescue education from the influence of the ruling class.

The bourgeois claptrap about the family and education, about the hallowed correlation of parents and child, becomes all the more disgusting, the more, by the action of Modern Industry, all the family ties among the proletarians are torn asunder, and their children transformed into simple articles of commerce and instruments of labor.”

– Karl Marx and Frederick Engels, Manifesto of the Communist Party,1848

Did anyone actually pay any attention to Florida once Miami Vice went off the air? Okay, maybe for vacation purposes, but suddenly, after the 2000 presidential election and the debacle known as the “butterfly ballot,” Florida was on the map again. There was a stream of editorial cartoons, late-night monologues, e-mails, jokes, bumper stickers, t-shirts - a whole industry grew out of one state’s stupidity.

Yes, stupidity. How was it that so many adults were unable to figure out a ballot and vote? We might now have an answer. The Florida Supreme Court just declared unconstitutional a school voucher program central to Jeb Bush’s plan for state education reform. The result is that tens of thousands of children now have fewer options to escape the Sunshine State’s failing public schools.

In a 5-2 decision, the court found that the Florida Constitution’s guarantee of a “uniform” system of public education precluded the voucher program. (Um, for those of you in Florida, that means prevents, prohibits, rules out.) Students who attend schools that are determined to be failing will no longer be allowed to take government-provided funding to a private school for a shot at a decent education.

“The Constitution prohibits the state from using public monies to fund a private alternative to the public school system,” the court’s chief justice, Barbara Pariente, wrote for the majority. “The provision mandates that the state’s obligation is to provide for the education of Florida’s children, specifies that the manner of fulfilling this obligation is by providing a uniform, high quality system of free public education, and does not authorize additional equivalent alternatives.”

Uniform. Everyone shall receive the same level of mediocre instruction. That’s fair, that’s right, that’s the law. Incidentally, the five judges who voted to strike down the program were Democrats; the two dissenters were Republicans. So much for “caring about the children.”

God forbid these kids get smart - they might figure out how to vote.

Actually, he hired someone to do it. Yeah, that’s it. Poor Jack. Terrorists are people, too, but Jack’s just a criminal. Let’s all watch the demonization of Jack until a bigger story comes along.

If that’s possible. The media seems fond of this one because it smells like another Watergate. It’s almost like the way Hollywood loves remakes - the media will always be looking for a formula story that brings in ratings. If it’s another Watergate, another Katrina, or another kid trapped in a well story, the press will be there to press it into our faces.

Sago has all the elements of a good story, so they’re going to stick with it as long as possible. Reporters are backing away from any responsibility they had in whipping desperate family members into a frenzy, and they’re trying to make Ben Hatfield out as some kind of Michael Brown. But T had a good point, asking: “Who told me about the surviving miners?” It wasn’t a mine supervisor, it was the media.

I like the idea of a 24-hour news channel; what I don’t like is the creation of news to fill the time. Newspaper and newsmagazine subscriptions are down, and fewer people watch the evening newscasts. What, then, is the future of news? Jim Pinkerton has noted that blogs are becoming more sophisticated with the addition of videos, turning them, essentially, into TV news. That might not be a good thing.

Sago is still the top story because it has all the drama of a made for TV movie. But the underlying theme seems to be that these people were forced into working in the mine, so they were victims. They have to work there to support their families, and did it even though there were safety violations. Their families are victims, too. They were lied to.

My mother waited tables in Chicago and had to get on the L at 3:00 in the morning. I remember the day she got dressed for work and had “a bad feeling.” She never called in sick, but she picked up the phone and said she wouldn’t be in. That night, the train she would have been on was robbed and many of the passengers were stabbed. She was convinced that it was a sign. That’s when we left Chicago. She liked Chicago, she liked her job, she liked her customers and the big tips, but it was too dangerous. For her it was simple: she had to support us and she couldn’t do it if she was dead.

Similarly, I worked in a bookstore after college. It was right on El Camino Real and sometimes I would close the store at ten o’clock and I’d be alone. Every now and then, a person would come into the store before closing and linger near the back wall near the magazines. My mother always worried that some night someone would come into the store and I’d end up another statistic. But I kept going in.

At another job I worked with chemicals, gases, and acids. Several friends who worked with me were badly injured, but I kept going in. The non-profit I left last year was in one of the worst areas of the city. It wasn’t unusual for someone to leave a door unlocked and I’d be there in the morning alone. Or maybe not. But I kept going in.

Dangerous jobs, but I chose to show up. What if I’d been maimed or killed? It’s unfortunate, but I knew the risks. No one thinks that working underground is safe. There are mining accidents all the time. It’s unfortunate, but these people chose to be miners. It’s unfortunate, but the families need to share responsibility. They were tired, they were hopeful, but they jumped the gun. Next time, get a grip. Wait for proof. (It’s what I do after every presidential election now. I wait until Inauguration Day before I get comfortable. Trust but verify.)

So now there will an investigation. Attention will be brought to a subject for a time. Mines might become safer, but they will never be safe. It’s unfortunate, but this story will have little effect on the world. The death of Ariel Sharon, on the other hand, will have far-reaching effects, so it’s time for the media to refocus.

I dread the thought of his death because I anticipate that there will be much merriment and dancing in the street. But maybe a few “death to Israel” and “death to America” signs will remind us all to refocus.

I kept the TV off and stayed busy making a vat of lasagna. Later I turned on the radio in the bathroom while I brushed my teeth. I listened to Michael Savage - it only takes me a few minutes to brush my teeth and that’s about all the time I can spend with Michael. But he had a writer from The Weekly Standard on, talking about the big Abramoff article. I made a note to myself to find the article. Then I turned on cable news.

I landed on MSNBC and saw a jubilant Tucker Carlson and an ecstatic Rita Cosby announce that the miners were alive. Impossible, I said to myself. T and I had this conversation earlier and agreed that there was no way the miners survived. T was annoyed that the coverage continued when there was no news to report. I turned to T who had dozed off, then surfed to CNN, then FNC.

It’s a miracle! The miners are alive! Stay tuned for the press conference! So I waited. No press conference. I took diabetic dog out in the yard and stood in the cold, feeling guilty. Have I really become that cynical? I was certain that the miners were dead and now they’re saying they aren’t. It just doesn’t sound right. Is this a sign? Is 2006 going to be a year of miracles? Will good things happen?

I felt like the Grinch. The dog and I went back into the house. Still no press conference. That’s odd, I thought. If the news is so good, where are the miners? The interviews? The coverage of family members reunited with loved ones?

I waited and there was no press conference. So I turned to C-SPAN and watched a segment about Abramoff and discovered a local connection that I hadn’t been aware of. This story gets more interesting all the time. Then I fell asleep on the dog.

When I woke up in the middle of the night I saw T stir and I mumbled something about the miners. He mumbled something back, then I mumbled something, then we both fell back to sleep. Later, he woke me up to say he heard the mouse on the roof. FNC was on: I turned my head and saw that the miners were dead. Wait a minute. They were alive five hours ago. I turned to T:

“Remember I told you they’d found them?”

“Yeah, and I asked you if they were dead and you said yes.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Never mind.”

Well, maybe we weren’t fully awake then, but we were now. One FNC reporter said he felt ashamed if anything he might have reported hurt the families. He explained that sometimes you hear what you want to hear. And report that? Then the CYA portion of the news broadcast began. On each station, reporters backed away from any responsibility. They started to blame the mining company - “We heard it from them! They said it, we didn’t!”

Another FNC reporter admitted that when he heard the miners had been found alive that it just didn’t sound right. If they were really alive, he said, then where were “the money shots?” Aaaargh! T was watching in the other room and groaned at the same time. And it got worse from there. Endless, inaccurate, tasteless. It’s not news. It’s just noise.

And now we wait to hear if it was George Bush who blew up the mine.

When I woke up this morning, the reporters were saying that carbon monoxide levels were too high to sustain life in the West Virginia mine. It seemed apparent, then, that the miners had expired. But the story wouldn’t end. To avoid the endless coverage, I went up to see my mother with scissors. I haven’t been pleased with her recent haircuts; as she’s aged, her hair has become curly, and the stylists tend to cut out all the curl and leave her looking like an eagle. I wanted her to look more poodle, so I cut it myself. The results were excellent. Why didn’t I do this sooner? She had always cut my hair; it was time that I return the favor.

Had I stayed home I would have just watched non-stop mine coverage or, worse, I might have done what I did last week. Conservative radio hosts were on vacation, so the local station aired “Best of” shows that I’d already heard. I was working in the yard and wanted to listen to something so I tuned in Air America. No, really, I did. It’s called “progressive.” Our city’s “progressive” radio station. It’s like when my liberal friend Bob from the Bay Area called to tell us that our mutual friend, Dave, was taking a job in Austin. I asked Bob why he didn’t relocate, too; after all, Austin’s a liberal town.

It isn’t liberal, Bob explained, it’s progressive. Puh-leez. But back to Air America. I don’t remember who I was listening to - he was filling in for someone - and the topic of conversation was:

“What do we tell our children?”

There was much hand wringing and whining. The Bush administration is so corrupt, so morally bankrupt, they tell so many lies and are responsible for so many murders…what do we tell our children when they ask us questions about this president?

Oh, I get it. This is a joke, right? They’re attempting to be ironic. No, actually they were serious. When Clinton’s name finally came up, a caller was told that the only thing Bill did was lie about sex. And that’s understandable because he was trying to protect his family.

Excuse me? I mean, I know the Left was annoyed when the Right complained that Clinton had soiled the presidency (in addition to the Oval Office carpet and a blue dress) and that they resented having to explain to their kids that oral sex really is sex and that some people just smoke cigars, whereas others…well, never mind. Not only was it perjury, but it was a terrible imposition on the average American. It was something we just didn’t need on top of everything else.

But Air America got me thinking. I remembered a conversation I’d had about seven years ago with a twenty year-old college student. I’d made a pretty funny joke about Chappaquiddick and she didn’t get it. In fact, she’d never heard of Chappaquiddick. A college student? I asked what they were teaching in her history classes. She couldn’t tell me. It was all so boring.

So I started to think about how today’s teachers would be covering the Clinton presidency. I’m curious. I was tempted to ask on New Year’s Eve when I was talking to my friend who teaches eighth grade history. But I’ve made a note to myself to ask her the next time we get together.

Our community is growing quickly and there’s a terrible shortage of teachers. Sometimes I get the feeling that I should bite the bullet and go back into a public school. But before I even seriously consider it, I’ll have to know the party line.

“Animal rights activists gives disillusioned feminists an excuse to go back to being women protecting wee creatures without compromising their radical credentials.”

– Florence King

The holiday season was a respite from politics, currents events, murders, and abuse, but now I have to get back to the business of treason. The holiday lingers: the wreath is still on the door and I have Christmas cards displayed in the other room. I think those can all come down now, right? The new year is here and it has started out…well, sucky. Maybe inauspicious is a better word. We have floods to the west and fires to the east. It doesn’t look good for thirteen men trapped in a West Virginia mine. We’ve had murders and traffic accidents here - one wiped out five of seven family members.

And I saw a terrible made for TV movie last night. I don’t want to spend a lot of time discussing this, so I’ll just post a warning. Avoid Surrender, Dorothy. I understand there was a dark film in the late nineties with the same title. I wish I’d watched that instead. This 2005 film with Diane Keaton was painfully bad. I could describe how truly awful in great detail but I won’t. I will offer one example only. In a nutshell, Keaton plays a woman whose daughter has just been killed in a car accident. She does what any grieving mother would do: she appears at the summer house her daughter shared with her friends and inflicts herself upon them and us for two long hours. They eat mushrooms. And I’m not talking portabellas. But the absolute worst moment came - and I actually groaned aloud and said, “Why? Why?,” sounding much like a wounded Nancy Kerrigan - when Keaton’s character went into the bedroom of her daughter’s best friend - a gay playwright - and took his new script to read. She offered a critique. This one’s dark, she said. Not as funny as the other one. Then she begged him not to do a Woody Allen - get all Bergman the way he did in that awful Interiors. No, seriously. This was in the script and Executive Producer and star Diane Keaton actually thought it was a good idea to recite the lines.

Keaton was in Interiors, of course, and this goes beyond inside joke to just plain mawkish. It was just so…Boomer. Enough said. I’d been in an odd funk all day and this didn’t help. I tried hard to take the first steps towards normal, though - really I did. See, I’m wearing a pair of Reebok cross trainer pumps from the early nineties. This isn’t normal. Years ago, a coworker, who I thought seemed normal, lectured me on the importance of good athletic shoes and their limited lifespan in miles and months. Based on her theory, if the shoes I’m wearing were dogs, they’d be 428 years old. I haven’t bought anything new in a very long time, so I broke down and ordered a new pair of walking shoes from QVC. I can downgrade the pumps to yard shoes.

Also, I read the paper. It’s normal to read the Sunday paper on Sunday. I was on track until I fell asleep then woke up to hear T tell me that when he was outside with diabetic dog and a flashlight, he detected a mouse darting between two bricks on the side of the house where I keep the bird feeders.

I don’t dislike rodents, but I know how much damage they can do. Does this mean I’ll have to do the one thing that I haven’t wanted to do? Stop feeding the birds? The seed has attracted several species of birds, but also hawks, cats, bugs, and now rodents.

How to deal with a mouse. Or mice. Ugh. Why does it feel like 2006 is just an extension of 2005?