The Voice of Treason

…peace be upon him and death to America and the Jews!” Well, if that’s how you order a breakfast to go in Tehran, how long are the lines at Starbucks? Wait - I don’t think there is a Starbucks in Iran. I believe you have to drive all the way to Turkey to get a Marble Mocha Macchiato. Or is the consumption of a Marble Mocha Macchiato punishable by death? If Mahmoud has issues with “Western” music, I’m sure he’s banned overpriced coffee, too.

Bloggers are all over this story like a cheap suit. What’s the difference between Roses of the Prophet Muhammad and Freedom fries? Well, duh! There was actually an element of humor behind the Freedom fries movement; it was a merely a harmless jab at the French, a playful reminder to cheese-eating surrender monkeys, a message to the world that once again the French were rolling over and only existed because we stepped in and saved their derrieres from the Nazis. The liberation of Paris plus fried potatoes equals Freedom fries. (Okay, almost harmless. The only thing deadly about this movement was the consumption of too many deliciously greasy fries.)

Let me get this straight. You can’t depict the Prophet but it’s okay to get in a murderous rage over a depiction and kill people and destroy property - and it’s okay to name a pastry after him. If you’re going to ban Danish products and burn Danish embassies and assassinate Danish cartoonists, then just stop eating the pastries!

As I type this, I’m drinking coffee and eating Danish cookies. Tasty little devils. My suggestion is that every newspaper and news network exhibit the cartoons. If Muslims are forced to ban every product from every country and burn down every business, soon there will be millions of starving Muslims sitting on piles of rubble and ashes. More Danish cheese, cookies, and beer for the rest of us.

Sound ridiculous? Yeah! And so does renaming pastries Roses of the Prophet Muhammad…and calling for the murder of someone who just drew a picture.

Oh, my man, I love him so
He’ll never know
All my life is just despair
But I don’t care
When he takes me in his arms
The world is bright all right
What’s the difference if I say
I’ll go away
When I know I’ll come back on my knees someday
For whatever my man is
I am his
forever more…

Yes, heartthrob. I remember the morning a few years ago, getting ready for work, staggering around the kitchen with a mug of coffee, listening to the radio. Suddenly I was wide awake. The local news report had just said that Dick Cheney was in town. I immediately grabbed the phone and called the number for the local Republican Party to find out how I could see the man I love.

Last Friday - before the shooting incident - T and I were having beers with a group of friends, all liberals. Somehow we started talking about cigars and I was asked if I smoked them. Used to, I said, but haven’t touched them since the Clinton administration. Mistake. Suddenly the conversation turned blue. I say Clinton, and everyone at the table starts talking about sex.

Finally someone said something political and I heard “Cheney.” I snapped to attention and blurted:

“I love Dick Cheney!”

All conversation stopped. The two women at the end of the table (they’re a couple) stared at me, speechless. Then they grimaced. “WHAT???” I repeated my statement. Oh, fine! Say the name Bill Clinton and everyone’s giddy, it’s party time; but say something nice about Dick Cheney and it’s as if I’d crapped on the pizza. Well, that was pretty much the end of the evening. We meet up again tonight; won’t that be fun?

Anyway, usually when I say “I love Dick Cheney” people laugh, assuming I’m joking. Kinda like when I went off to college at 17 to major in Theater.

“What’s your major?”

“Theater.”

“Ha! Good one. Seriously, what’s your major?”

After being told repeatedly that I didn’t “look like a Theater major,” I started asking people what major I did look like. “English. Definitely.” So I doubled to make things easier for everyone. But the same thing happens when I say I love Dick Cheney. Most people laugh, thinking that I’m being sardonic, and others just look stunned.

Anyway, that morning I called the Republicans’ office and left messages, calling from home, then from my cell on the way to work, then from my office phone. Someone actually called me back to say they’d put my name “on the list.” What does that mean, I asked. I was told that I was an official guest: “So come on down.”

I ran to my boss’ office. I never called in sick, and I had over 300 hours of unused vacation time. If she said I couldn’t leave, I’d…well, what would I do? She looked up at me.

“I can’t be here today.”

“Are you sick?”

“No, Dick Cheney’s here today.”

“So?”

“I have to see Dick Cheney.”

“Why?”

“I love Dick Cheney.”

Silence. I’d expected her to ask again, “Are you sick?,” but she just sat there, not speaking, not blinking, and not breathing. Uh-oh, I thought, I’ve killed her.

“Go knock yourself out.”

I ran past T’s office and told him I was leaving to go see Cheney and I had to move fast before my boss regained full consciousness and changed her mind. I ran to my car and started driving, having no idea where I was going. He was speaking at the new high school in the town next to ours and I didn’t know where it was. But I was a woman on a mission - I found it, I parked, and I ran to where people who didn’t look like high school students were standing. That’s when I found out that my name wasn’t “on the list.” The guy with the clipboard looked at me, and I have no idea what expression I had on my face, but he whispered, “It’s okay. You can go in.”

So when I heard that Dick Cheney was covering up the shooting incident because he was there at the ranch with his mistress, Pamela Willeford, the ambassador to Switzerland and Liechtenstein, I had to giggle. Ah, so there are three of us: Lynne, me, and now this Pam person. Well, who can blame us?

He’s brilliant, charming, has one of the most impressive resumes in America, and he loves dogs. That sparkle in his eye, that wicked sense of humor. Oh, and that little smile of his - slightly off-kilter, but revealing a man who knows how to show a woman a good time. Roger Daltrey ringlets might have been the cat’s pajamas when I was thirteen, but a real woman knows what bliss can be had with a man who doesn’t need to tie up an entire airport getting his ‘do touched up.

Okay, I admit it. I hated those women who voted for Bill Clinton because they thought he was “so cute.” Out-of-control-hormones isn’t a reason to go to the polls. But he’s sooooooo good looking! And young! And smart! And the way he bites his lip…it’s just so sexy!

All I could do was wonder how a grassroots campaign could get the 19th Amendment repealed. And when the “bimbo eruptions” swelled, burst, and spurted, and stories circulated about groping, raping, and harassment, all the girls cooed and made excuses for him: It’s Hillary’s fault because she just doesn’t give him what he needs. Then there were claims that it was beyond his control because he had an “addiction.” And the biggest defense line of all: What’s the big deal? It’s only sex.

So if it’s true that Dick Cheney is having a torrid affair with Pam, what’s the big deal? It’s only sex. It’s not important what a public person does in his private life. What does it have to do with his job? It’s between him and his wife. It’s a non-issue. Any of this sounding familiar?

I remember when Bill had a Gennifer, stories circulated about George H.W. Bush having his own Jennifer. It didn’t stick because no one believed that Barbara Bush would tolerate an affair. People tried to picture George cheating on Barbara and, frankly, they couldn’t. End of scandal.

And now the gossip about Cheney. Well, he is a man who appreciates a fine Italian weapon. He enjoys a full-bodied red wine. The story of the Cheneys’ courtship is the stuff of Hollywood legend. And he does tend to be a little secretive. Still waters run oh so deep. Who is he with when he’s in those undisclosed locations?

Breaking news! Harry Whittington is going to live. Why? Because — haven’t you heard? Dick Cheney is a lady-killer.

Sometimes I’ll come across an article and it says exactly what I’d say - but it does it so well it makes me glad I didn’t even bother to try. (I used to get that feeling every time I read Florence King.) There’s so much to read these days and I’m always finding something that jumps out at me and makes me think that if only every one else could read this, the world would be a better place.

Because there are so many articles and columns that fit that description, I’ve decided to feature an occasional piece here on the V.O.T. to highlight an opinion and give kudos to someone who has said something that makes me say: “Ah, yes.”

The other day I wrote about the silliness of focusing so much attention on a hunting accident when other important issues of the day were being neglected by the media. Like the women’s curling event in Torino. I was being facetious, of course, because there really are life and death issues around us that are being ignored. Thomas Sowell hinted at this; now Tony Blankley has written a column this week that sums things up rather well. So, in case you missed it yesterday, here it is for your perusal.

The Shooting Party

By Tony Blankley
February 15, 2006

“In the absence of any pressing news these days — other than Iran’s nuclear weapons development crisis, the election of Hamas terrorists in Palestine, on-going worldwide Muslim riots and killing in reaction to a cartoon, Al Gore’s near sedition while speaking in Saudi Arabia, the turning over of our East Coast ports to be managed by a United Arab Emirates firm, the criminal leaking of vital NSA secrets to the New York Times, Mexican military incursions across our southern border, the Iraqi crisis, Congress’s refusal to deal with the developing financial collapse of Social Security and Medicare, inter alia — the White House press corps has exploded in righteous fury over the question of the vice president’s little shooting party last weekend.

As I understand the profound concern of the ever alert White House reporters, they smell a constitutional crisis because the shooting party failed to alert the media of the accidental shooting down in Corpus Christi, Texas. Well, actually they did alert the Corpus Christi media — but that didn’t count. Unless the exalted ones have been formally informed by an official government press secretary, no public communication has technically occurred.

I checked the bylaws of the White House press corps, and they are right. It seems that the bylaws refer to Article XXIII of the U.S. Constitution which expressly designates that White House reporters with a minimum annual income of $375,000 (plus minimum stock options equal to not less than two-thirds their yearly salary, plus use of driver and long sedan during business hours, which hours must include post-deadline dinner engagements of a semi-social nature) are the exclusive recipients of all government information.

If information isn’t hand-delivered in gold-edged paper to them while they are reclined on their chaise lounge, it hasn’t been released to the public. And if they don’t report a fact, it hasn’t happened. This provision is vital to a vigorous and independent free press. (I should note, my copy of the Constitution must be outdated, because it doesn’t have an Article XXIII.)

Of course, this provision technically makes the White House press corps not reporters, but receivers — sort of glorified shipping clerks, but with the prerogative to rewrite and repackage the material before they deliver it to the public.

When an out-of-town newspaper got the scoop, the dignity of the White House press corps had been impeached, so they threw a public temper tantrum. As that has worked for many of them since their early childhood, they obviously expect it to work while on the job — to use the term loosely.

To add to their indignity, the reporter for The Washington Post went on MSNBC dressed up in a hunting costume to ridicule the vice president. (It is said that the enfeebled and debased French Dauphin, Charles VII, dressed in women’s clothing to hide from Joan of Arc, who was trying to save France.)

I suppose most of us, as we rise in life, develop a sense of entitlement and pompous dignity. Doubtless we all think we are more important than we are.

As Charles de Gaulle once sardonically observed while walking past a graveyard: ‘That place is full of indispensable men.’

But the Washington press corps, and particularly the White House press corps, has developed, as an institution, a grossly dilated view of itself. Most of us can tolerate arrogance, if it is accompanied by extraordinary capacity and virtuosity. The brilliant scientist, the war-winning general, the great artists are entitled to their pride.

But the hallmark of the Washington press corps these days is mediocrity, groupthink, a lack of curiosity and rampant careerism. These attributes were all on show in the shooting-party incident. But this is just a trivial incident — except for the poor, shot gentleman who suffered a heart attack, may he recover fully and quickly.

We live at a moment of revolutionary change in the international order. The rise and violence of radical, possibly caliphate-forming Islam and the huge, culture-changing, unexamined consequences of rampant globalization make the present one of the least predictable moments to be alive.

Both government officials and citizens are in desperate need of a national press corps that is alive to the change and digging to find factual hints of the near future. We need the kind of future-oriented intellectual vigor, curiosity and genuine iconoclasm that typified American reporters in the first half of the last century.

Instead, as the shooting-party incident exemplified, we have in the White House at the most elite level of American journalism, self-absorbed, self-important men and women who stand on their prerogatives even over marginal and inconsequential matters.

Should they ever have a truly daring, creative, productive, hard-researched idea about what is going on in this dangerous world — they should alert the media.”

Last night, after the Scottish Deerhound won the group, T turned to me and asked: “What are you going to do?” As it turned out, and as I’d suspected yesterday, all seven dogs were breeds I like. So when he asked me, seconds before they entered the ring, who I wanted to see win Westminster, I said they were all spectacular and I wouldn’t feel bad about any one winning. All sensational dogs. He pressed me. “Well,” I said, “you know I’m partial to Bull Terriers. I do love that Rufus.”

I knew he had a real chance when the spotlight hit him and he was standing there, looking so perfectly Bull Terrier. Some dogs have star quality and you know they’re going to win. The moment the light hit him, I saw that quality and gasped. Today they’re saying it was his perfect egg-shaped head that made him the clear winner. But I like to think that, on Valentine’s Day, it was his perfect heart-shaped nose that told the judge, “I’m the one.”

Frivolous? Maybe. But my favorite thing in the world sheds twenty-four hours a day, sweats through its feet, uses me as a napkin, drools on the tile, and hogs the couch and bed. T has many sterling qualities, but I wouldn’t tolerate him barking in my ear or licking himself endlessly. Somehow when the dogs do it, it’s acceptable. Dogs are sacred creatures.

So now I need to figure out the significance of the sign I saw during the “protest” in Pakistan. Okay, I get the torching of “Western” businesses like KFC (although I’ve never understood why people choose to destroy the areas they have to live in); I get the chanting (”Death to America! Hang the man who insulted the prophet!”); I get the burning of effigies; and I get the incineration of flags. But what I don’t get is the sign that I keep catching mere glimpses of - the one that looks like the heads of George Bush and Danish Prime Minister Rasmussen on the bodies of dogs. Are those dogs? What is the significance? Something wrong with dogs?

Again, radical Muslims - and maybe “moderate” ones, too, but do they ever speak up? - have issues with dogs. I’ve written here before about that, but for a quick review:

1. “The Prophet is reported to have said: ‘Whoever keeps a dog save for hunting or for guarding crops or cattle will lose one large measure (qirat) of his reward each day.’”

2. “We already know that the Prophet forbade mixing with dogs, and that he warned against their licking plates and against keeping them without necessity.”

3. “The increasing interest shown by many people in recent times in keeping dogs as pets has compelled us to draw public attention to the dangers which result from this, especially because pet dogs are hugged and kissed and permitted to lick the hands of the young and the old, and what is worse, to lick the plates and utensils which are used by human beings for eating and drinking. Besides being unhygienic and uncouth, this practice is bad and abhorrent to good taste.”

Hmmm. But sawing off body parts with a dull blade, blowing up children, and flying planes into buildings full of people is acceptable. Well, as they say, Allah Almighty knows best.

Just call me - with my clothes covered in dog hair and my face smeared with slobber - an infidel. Just as long as you allow me to call you a psychopath. Free speech. Get used to it.

I reside in a city in which more than a thousand shelter animals are put to death each month. A few days ago the lead story on the local news was that someone in the city just north of here put a cardboard box full of puppies outside. Just abandoned these puppies, only two or three days old, on the side of the road. They huddled in the corner of the box and tried to keep each other warm, but it gets frigid in the desert at night. The box was found just a couple blocks from the local shelter, but it was too late. They’d frozen to death.

Why, when so many perfectly wonderful dogs are sentenced to death every day, do people celebrate the breeding and showing of pedigreed dogs? Why do we watch Westminster?

Simple. Whether a single breed or a mixture of many, dogs rule. Every year I settle in to watch the big show in Madison Square Garden and I’m filled with excitement. I can’t wait to see each dog. My favorite breeds happen to be in the Working group, although I do have favorites in every group.

Last night I sat down with a decent red wine and two perfectly wonderful Danish cheeses: a creamy Havarti and a lovely Fontina. (Buy Danish!) Then something unusual happened. Four dogs were chosen to go on to Best In Show, and they’re four breeds I’m particularly fond of. Sure, I always like to see the Boxer pulled out by the judge - and last night’s Boxer was exceptional - but there wasn’t a loser in the group. Top spot, though, went to the Rottie.

The terriers I like never win. Each year I watch the Am Staff and Bull Terriers get passed over, but last night the Colored Bull Terrier that I’ve been admiring for the last few was the winner of the Terrier group. Then the Pug won. Then the Dalmatian. Uh-oh.

There are three groups left; what are the chances of three more of my favorite breeds going to Best In Show? I mean, I can look at the seven top dogs and say that even though it’s a breed I don’t have a special feeling about or a breed I’d never ever live with, I can step back and say that it’s the best of its breed and deserves to win - even if there’s a dog I really like just because I’m partial to the breed.

My fear sometimes is that a favorite breed will win, then every backyard breeder in America will start churning out puppies. In a way, I’m relieved when the dog I like doesn’t win. But already on the first night we have four breeds that are among my preferred. Oh, I’ve loved that Rufus for a long time. I adore Bull Terriers. (I watched Miami Vice just because Don Johnson looked so much like a White Bull Terrier. No, seriously. Look at him.) But the other three are sensational, too. And tonight…well, what if all seven are breeds I appreciate? How do I choose a favorite? Who do I root for?

Tonight I’ll finish off that cheese with an innocuous Trebbiano D’Abruzzo, and I’ll do what I do every year. When the seven dogs enter the ring for Best In Show I’ll tear up. I don’t know why I do it, but I weep every year.

Maybe it’s because I see dogs that are cared for and venerated, and then I think of the ones who deserve the same treatment but end up huddled in the corner of a cardboard box, discarded like trash, on the side of a road.

“Would you rather go hunting with Dick Cheney or riding in a car over a bridge with Ted Kennedy?”
– Rush Limbaugh

As Rush points out, at least the Vice President will see to it that you’ll get prompt medical attention. I first learned about this story on the local news: “The Vice President shoots an old man!” Then, from the archives, a carefully chosen photo of Cheney that makes him look like someone who shouldn’t be around a loaded weapon.

The media reaction to this story is…interesting. They’re demanding answers.

“Do you think that the shooting accident involving the Vice President on Saturday should have been disclosed to the public on Saturday?”

“Aside from the medical attention, isn’t there a public disclosure requirement that should have kicked in immediately?”

“As the Press Secretary, are you satisfied with the way this was handled?”

“The Vice President made a decision about how the public should be notified that basically is at odds with the standard practice of how the President’s own press operation and this White House notifies the public; isn’t that right?”

“The Vice President of the United States accidentally shoots a man and he feels that it’s appropriate for a ranch owner who witnessed this to tell the local Corpus Christi newspaper, and not the White House press corps at large, or notify the public in a national way?”

“Did the Vice President follow all of the appropriate safety procedures that are familiar to hunters in this case?”

“There’s a report coming out of a Sheriff’s deputy there who said that he was prevented from interviewing the Vice President by the Secret Service. Do you know anything about that? And is that appropriate?”

“What was the input of the White House? Did you know they were turning it over to a private citizen to inform people?”

“What time on Sunday morning did you learn that Vice President Dick Cheney was the shooter?”

“Who woke you up and told you?”

“Was it Cheney’s gun? Is that his gun, that shotgun? Was it the Vice President’s gun?”

“When did the President know that the Vice President was the shooter? What time?”

“The Vice President did not call the President to tell him he was the shooter?”

“It took 12 hours for someone to tell someone up here that the Vice President had fired the weapon?”

“So when did the President definitively know that the Vice President had shot somebody?”

“It wasn’t a detail that it was the Vice President that pulled the trigger?”

“Is it appropriate for a private citizen to be the person to disseminate the information that the Vice President of the United States has shot someone?”

“Has the Vice President always had a hunting license whenever he’s gone hunting?”

“Do you know whether he’s taken a hunting safety course?”

“Why can’t we get someone from his office to answer some questions? Or get him?”

“Is it proper for the Vice President to offer his resignation or has he offered his resignation?”

“This is sort of reminiscent of the levee story, frankly, you know?”

“Under Texas law, is this kind of accidental shooting a possible criminal offense?”

“Would this be much more serious if the man had died?”

“Will the Vice President — and the President, for that matter — continue to go hunting? And is there some thought about maybe this is too dangerous an activity for such an important person?”

It’s not like Dick Cheney took time to shower, shave, and sober up before telling anyone that there was an injured party. I’m just concerned that the media is focused on this story and is ignoring the really important issues of the day. Mardi Gras. The “C’est Levee” parade. Westminster. The women’s curling event in Torino. And we’re down to four designers on Project Runway.

T makes a good point. A number of journalists have expressed concern that the VP was trying to annihilate innocent birds. It’s so nice to know that journalists finally have something positive to say about…quail.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”
- Edmund Burke

I have been guilty of invoking the memory of September 11. I always define the event by speaking of the towers that burned. A lot of us do that. I don’t think we mean it in such a way that would dismiss the destruction of other buildings in Lower Manhattan or the Pentagon or of a United Airlines plane that disintegrated in a field in Pennsylvania. Not at all.

We’re a super-sized nation. We like symbols and we like ‘em big. The largest buildings in the largest city crumble before our eyes - that’s a visual that has some impact. The Pentagon…well, if you “loathe the military” why do you care? I guess the same can be said about the World Trade Center. If you hate capitalism, why care?

But what’s to hate about an airplane headed to San Francisco from New Jersey?

There have been gatherings at Ground Zero, moments of silence, the recitation of names. This takes hours. I listen to the names as they’re read. I’ve been online reading about that day, the conspiracies, the plans for memorials. And I’ve looked for information specifically about the group of people who may have prevented a plane from destroying buildings in Washington, D.C.

There have been many articles that describe the passengers, who they were, what they did.

Thomas E. Burnett Jr. was 38 years old and lived in San Ramon, California. He made four calls to his wife, Deena, from the plane, and told her that one passenger had been stabbed and that “a group of us are going to do something.”

Jeremy Glick, from West Milford, New Jersey, called his wife, Liz, and his in-laws in New York to say, “The men voted to attack the terrorists.”

Richard Guadagno, 38, of Eureka, California, managed the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s Humboldt Bay National Wildlife Refuge. Humboldt County was a place he could call home. He lived in an A-frame on an acre with a view of the Pacific, grew orchids in his kitchen, and watched the hummingbirds that hovered over the plants and 150 trees that he had planted by hand. He loved his dog, a German Shepherd named Raven. He’d been visiting his parents, Jerry and Beatrice, in New Jersey. He’d been there to visit them and attend his grandmother’s 100th birthday party. His parents gave him cuttings from their yard to take home with him: crape myrtle, Japanese maple and primrose.

Alan Beaven lived in the Catskills with his wife and 5-year-old daughter, Sonali. He’d been born in New Zealand and lived in England working as a prosecutor for Scotland Yard. Now, in America, he was an environmental lawyer with one last case to try. He was on his way to an office in San Francisco to finish up, then he would go to India. He had made the decision to leave with his family to do volunteer work there. He’d taped a motto to the wall of his New York office: “Fear — who cares?”

Todd Beamer grew up in Illinois and attended Fresno State University in California to play baseball, but soon realized that professional ball was not in his future. He returned home and eventually married Lisa. Their first date was November 2, 1991. In their home he built a shrine to his beloved Chicago Cubs. When he called his wife from the plane his call was routed to a different Lisa — a supervisor with the GTE Customer Center in Oakbrook, Illinois. As Lisa Jefferson went down the checklist in GTE’s “distress call” manual, Beamer conveyed the details of their situation: how many passengers, how many hijackers, the weapons they carried, what they said and what they did.

Then he told her that that the passengers had talked about it and decided to try to “jump the hijackers.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Todd?”

“It’s what we have to do.”

He asked her to pray with him. They recited the Lord’s Prayer together, then she heard him say:

“Are you guys ready? Let’s roll.”

Let’s roll. He said “Let’s roll.” He didn’t say “Let’s roll over.”

Looking back at the history of tragic times often reveals that many — or most — of the people of those times were often preoccupied with things that look trivial, or even pathetic, in view of the catastrophe looming over them. Will later generations looking back at our times see a similar blindness, and even frivolousness, in the face of mortal dangers?

– Thomas Sowell, February 2006

Thought I’d provide a few lines from his February 7 column. On February 4, I finished an entry with: “And while we all sit here and fiddle with words, embassies in Damascus are burning.” That was a week ago. At that time pundits were saying that the “protests” would die down in two or three days.

Today marks the 27th anniversary of the Islamic Revolution. Says Ahmadinejad:

“Now in the West insulting the prophet is allowed, but questioning the Holocaust is considered a crime. We ask, why do you insult the prophet? The response is that it is a matter of freedom, while in fact they are hostages of the Zionists. And the people of the U.S. and Europe should pay a heavy price for becoming hostages to Zionists.”

Two Jordanian editors have been put on trial for reprinting the Danish cartoons. Yemen has announced that three editors of privately owned Yemeni papers will stand trial and their publishing licenses will be suspended. They’re charged with offending the prophet and violating religions.

Saudi Arabia’s top cleric said that those responsible for the drawings should be put on trial and punished. A nice way of saying “killed.”

The protests continue. Thousands are in the streets of London, but what’s happening in Trafalgar Square is being called a “peaceful rally.” That’s fine. Call it an Easter parade for all I care. It’s still five thousand or more people assembled because of…what, exactly?

Americans don’t have to leave the house to protest. We can write letters to the editor, call talk radio, e-mail our politicians, circulate pamphlets and petitions, camp outside the President’s ranch, and blog. We worry that the government is listening to our phone calls and violating our civil liberties. I’m not saying that this isn’t an issue worth exploring, but it’s - like Sowell points out - trivial, pathetic, and frivolous in the “big picture.”

CNN and American newspapers are refusing to show us the Danish cartoons. Are they afraid? Or are they censoring the news? The tiny nation of Denmark is under attack. Artists are hiding, embassies are burning, and the economy is taking an enormous hit. We’ve begun to trivialize this story because it’s “just about a few cartoons.”

But it’s not. And we think it is. Sowell is so right — we are pathetic. Ordinarily I would suggest if we want to be taken seriously we should march through the streets. But it appears that this isn’t taken all that seriously, so why bother?

Sedition:

The distinction between sedition and treason consists in this, that though its ultimate object is a violation of the public peace, or at least such a course of measures as evidently engenders it, yet it does not aim at direct and open violence against the laws, or the subversion of the Constitution.

I’ll stick with treason. But sedition is certainly an interesting concept. And it’s in the news again. Local news even. It seems that a letter was published in one of our city’s “alternative” newspapers and has caused quite a stir. What’s interesting is that the letter appeared back in September - like the Danish cartoons - but is creating a controversy four months later. What - are people too busy during the holiday season to overthrow the government? (”Gee, I’ve got cooking and shopping and parties and winter concerts and decorating - how am I supposed to pull off a coup?”)

First let me say that I love these alternative newspapers. I read them and I really enjoy the letters to the editor. An acquaintance from the non-profit had fretted over a letter he had submitted awhile back. He was a sweet man, a talented musician, but an anarchist. Every time I saw him he was wearing a “George Bush is a Terrorist” t-shirt and carrying a copy of either The New York Times or our local rag that he’d “revise” by drawing Hitler moustaches and swastikas on every photo of George Bush. A tad sophomoric, but it kept him busy and out of trouble.

We knew where the other stood politically, but we got along famously. When he wrote an inflammatory letter about our Democratic governor he came to me for advice. “They probably won’t publish it, those fascists! Or they’ll edit it. Either way I’ll end up on their watch list.”

I thought it was hysterical that even he believed a Leftist paper would censor his letter. I read the letters and articles in these papers all the time and, to me, it’s simply venting. What this woman did back in September was, essentially, just that. Her letter excoriated the Bush administration for, in a nutshell, Katrina, the war in Iraq, the federal deficit, global warming, lying, and criminal negligence. It was a little over the top in that her facts were off, but it was fraught with emotion. To make a long story short, her employer - the government - seized her computer and now there’s talk of charging her with sedition. The ACLU is representing her — naturally.

The local alternative paper has jumped on this story to prove that Big Brother Bush is out to get her and any other person who voices an opinion. My theory? It isn’t George Bush who’s out to get her, it’s her boss. Government agencies, like your average corporation, have policies in place that state an employee cannot openly badmouth the company or use company property (computers, phones, fax machines, copiers) to conduct business other than what they’re being paid to do. They seized her computer to see if she wrote the letter on “company” time. She didn’t, and the computer was returned within 24 hours. If there’s a policy that says a government employee can’t attack the government, then her employers were probably all over her just to cover their own asses. Happens all the time. We have to look like we’re addressing the issue.

But what I really think is that someone doesn’t like her and they can’t find a problem with her job performance, so they’re looking for another reason to get rid of her. Again, happens all the time. You’re a good employee, but someone doesn’t like you for reasons that have nothing to do with your work. Now that the ACLU is on this, she’ll probably have some job security. Hey, and maybe she isn’t that good at her job - who really knows?

The letter itself was pretty innocuous. As letters to alternative editors go, this one was pretty tame. She sounded upset. To be fair, she’s a nurse at the V.A. hospital, and she’s probably stressed. I’ve known a lot of veterans and I’ve heard their stories - good and bad - about the V.A. A former coworker’s husband - he looked so much like Dennis Hopper it was spooky - still suffered with nightmares, twenty years after combat, and would wake up screaming. Loud noises would send him diving under furniture. This nurse was understandably concerned that this war was producing more scarred citizens.

What’s interesting about this whole episode is that people are talking about sedition. A caller, livid about the incident but who hadn’t even read the original letter, said that this is so typical of the current fascist administration. It all started with that fascist John Adams. I love talk radio. It’s not every day you hear someone call John Adams a fascist. You know, John Adams? One of our Founding Fascists? Well, ya know what they say: One man’s fascist is another man’s freedom fighter.

The irony of it all. Could we even be having these conversations and debates if it hadn’t been for that “fascist”? The nurse’s letter and the Danish cartoons are huge stories. Why? Because we are now forced to look at our reaction to free speech. When I heard about the Danish cartoons I wanted to see them. Were they printed in my local paper? No. Were they shown on the local news? No. I was disappointed that FNC was telling me how offensive they were but they weren’t letting me decide that for myself. Show me the pictures!

They wouldn’t do it because they didn’t want to offend Muslims and fan the flames of whatever it is we’re calling the reaction to a few badly drawn cartoons. I had to go online to foreign sources to find them. If Muslims are reacting this way to cartoons like these, we’ve got a real problem. Finally, FNC showed one: the “bomb turban.” But I heard that Michelle Malkin had posted the drawings on her website and when she appeared on FNC she held up a posterboard displaying all the cartoons. YES! They should be shown. We should be able to look at them because they’re newsworthy. We’re not getting the whole story if we can’t see the source of the rioting. So four New York Press reporters walked off the job because their paper pulled the ‘toons. Good for them.

Now there’s a contest for the “best” Holocaust cartoon. Will American newspapers print the winner? If they do, why? This is fascinating stuff, I tell you. What is free speech? What is freedom of religion? What is a free press?

George Bush has explained that with a free press comes “responsibility.” What does that mean? I complained that we have no free press if we aren’t seeing these cartoons, and T calmly explained that a free press is free to print what they want to and free to choose not to print as well. Hmmmm. Okay, but I still want access to those cartoons. This is why I bristle when I hear politicians talking about regulating the Internet and talk radio. They want to muzzle.

We need to calm down, take a step back, and ask ourselves what freedom means. I don’t like hearing that George Bush knew about September 11 and that his administration and “the Jews” were behind it. But the conspiracy theories are out there. Free Speech TV shows films I don’t agree with, but I watch them and I want to be able to continue to watch them. Clinton supporters didn’t like it when we speculated about the number of dead bodies that cropped up during the eight year national nightmare. Did the Clintons have these people bumped off? Were those discussions treasonous? Was that sedition? Or was that free speech?

It’s free speech when I say something you don’t like, and when you say something I don’t like it’s sedition. Isn’t that how it works? I understand that I have the right to express myself, but I’m told I can’t express myself if I intend to offend. So what good is that right if I can’t exercise it?

A quick example. I didn’t appreciate some of what was said at Coretta Scott King’s funeral. Wasn’t that free speech? I called it unseemly behavior. This is getting more interesting all the time. In a world where some of us wonder where etiquette has gone, we are faced with a lot of “expression” that offends us.

You don’t wear white after Labor Day and you don’t wear it at a wedding to upstage the bride. You don’t wear black, either, because it’s a wedding, not a funeral. You don’t pick your nose and you don’t pick your face. You don’t criticize the cook, pick a dog up by its ears, or have sex with an intern. You don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull the mask of the ol’ Lone Ranger, and you don’t mess around with Jim.

In other words, we are supposed to behave ourselves. Be responsible in our speech. Okay. Then why can’t we demand a responsible protest? Uh, because that might offend someone. See where this is going?

Tuesday was an election day in our little town. I’d been watching the funeral of Mrs. King, struck by the grace of George and Laura Bush, and that of George’s father. Yes, grace. So fitting in such a place. Whoa - I’m rhyming. Starting to sound like the Reverend Lowery.

Like I said yesterday, I’d started swigging beer early in the day. I’m currently drinking Grolsch. It’s been on sale at our local liquor hut, and I’m showing solidarity. Okay, okay - I know it’s Dutch not Danish, but Elephant and Carlsberg weren’t as affordable. I’m keeping an eye on prices and once they drop, I’m stocking Danish beer! (Cut me some slack - I’m not working.)

It’s not like I can issue a statement from the White House or reprint some political cartoons. I am but a little person. A mere taxpayer. An insignificant little voter in our democracy. Our election was about funding publick educashun. And you know how much I revere our government schools.

Knowing that my vote wouldn’t matter - these bond issues are always overwhelmingly “yes” - I toyed with the idea of not voting. My car battery is dead. I have a good excuse. So I took a break from the festivities in Atlanta, and T and I took our dogs to walk along the river. Diabetic dog’s feet are sensitive so we were trying out booties so he could walk on rough surfaces with minimal discomfort. It was a beautiful day. Sunny, balmy. I can’t say enough about this global warming.

Anyway, after our walk, we got the dogs back into T’s truck and drove to our local liquor hut to pick up a couple more twelve packs. I needed them for the rest of the funeral. T went inside and I opened the back of the shell and embraced our dogs. We kissed. Wet, sloppy dog spit kisses. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t kissing dogs. I kiss stray dogs. I kiss sick dogs. If there’s a dog, I’ll kiss it. On the mouth. Dog spit does not offend me. Nothing about dogs offends me. They are God’s little messengers. Angels here on earth, instructing us humans on how to be better at being human.

Then it occurred to me. One day I might be put to death for doing this. Radical Islam has issues with dog spit. I like dogs. I like pigs. I like Jews. I like liberty. I’m doomed in the New World.

And then I knew that I had to go vote. I’m a registered Republican - it’s in my blood. I never miss an election. Neither rain nor sleet nor snow nor dark of night nor dead car battery or kidney stone - I have to vote. Or I can just sit and have another cold Grolsch.

Then I took a break from the funeral to listen to our local talk radio host. As usual, a dismal turnout - except for the side of town where I live. We always show up to vote. And then I heard it. Poll workers weren’t asking for photo i.d. Wait a minute. Ten months ago, I voted for that. Ten months and millions of dollars and poll workers weren’t demanding to see identification?

Angry voters were calling talk radio hosts to complain. They didn’t ask. No one has to show i.d. What’s going on here?

My interest was piqued. Were my poll workers deliberately violating the new law? Am I even surprised? Then it occurred to me. American soldiers were beaten, denied food and water, and forced to walk across the Philippines in the hot sun; a man walked with a wooden cross on his back - the one he would eventually be nailed to; and a Republican ex-governor climbed Mount Everest with frozen toes and a broken fibula. And I couldn’t get off my drunk ass to go vote?

I grabbed my Walkman and purse and headed out the door. I was listening to calls from voters who hadn’t been asked to show i.d. and I was getting more and more fired up. Then the radio station contacted the County Clerk who said that every poll worker had been trained and was aware of the new law, but that some of them have been doing this for a long time and they can be kinda stubborn. Stubborn? I think criminal is the correct term. Are they just…untrainable? (Read: stupid.) Is this merely a reflection of the public school district we’re supposed to be voting on?

I was so fired up that I completely lost track of where I was going. I looked up and was on a street several blocks past my polling place. I’d overshot - big time. (My sense of direction is much better when I’m sober. Now I know why some places wouldn’t sell liquor on election days.)

So I kept walking. And walking. If the Romans, and not the Spaniards, had founded this city, we might have working roads - and sidewalks - today. I trudged through sand, feeling like T.E. Lawrence, and stepped over broken glass and chunks of concrete. And then I had to cross one of the busiest streets in the area. I had to get to the school on the other side to vote but the cars kept coming from four directions. I saw a crossing guard on the other side of the street. She was leaning on a pole, watching me. I assumed her shift - according to strict union rules - had not yet officially started, so I was on my own. There was a break in traffic and I hauled ass across the street. As I ran past her I heard her say: “Wow. You sure waited a looooong time.”

“Yes, I did!,” and kept running.

Then I saw a man in front of the school with a clipboard. In hushed tones: “Excuse me, but are you a registered Republican by any chance?”

“Why, yes. I am.”

“You want to sign a petition?”

“Certainly. I love petitions.”

I filled in all the lines, handed back the clipboard, and went inside to vote. I stood in line and wondered how it was a good idea that someone like me who was wearing an old Rude Dog sweatshirt, had hedgehog hair (nine weeks now since shaving my head), and had been drinking lager all afternoon could be permitted to mix and mingle with all these kids at an elementary school. Then I noticed the thick list of names on the table in front of me.

I flipped through it, found my name and address, and looked at the four digit secret code next to my name. If I can remember this, it might save them some time when they try to find me on this list. I watched the people in line ahead of me. No one was asked for i.d. Some people automatically presented it, but no one was asked. One person didn’t show it, so he was asked for his address. Then for the last four digits of his Social Security number.

Wait a minute. What petition did I just sign? Whoa - my turn. And, like clockwork, I whipped out my driver’s license AND my voter registration card. I can’t help myself! It’s a reflex. And I even gave them the four digit secret code. But they did ask for my address and last four digits of my Social Security number. I voted, thanked everybody, then headed home.

I was still listening to talk radio and sifting through the details of what had just transpired. I think I signed a petition to put our former District Attorney on the ballot for the gubernatorial race. I think. Wait a minute. They didn’t ask for i.d. If I hadn’t been so quick to show it, they would have just asked me for my address and the last four digits of my Social Security number. (I was starting to sober up.) How do they know what the last four digits of my Social Security number are? They have to be on the list with my name and address, right? Were those numbers on the list that I checked when I walked into the polling place? If they were, what’s to stop someone from picking an identity from the list - a name, address, and those four digits - then voting? That doesn’t prove identification!

And that was precisely why we went to the polls ten months ago and voted for photo i.d. Now I was completely sober. And pissed off. At myself! If I had been more alert I would have checked that list to see if my Social Security number was on there. And I was pissed because, once more, it’s obvious that, in this state, my vote does not amount to a hill of cat sh*t.

Then I saw her. A black girl - tiny, petite little thing - pushing the biggest stroller I’d ever seen up the hill towards me. Inside it was a baby whose picture should, by law, be on every box of Gerber Barley Cereal. And maybe every jar of creamed spinach, too. She said something to me.

“What? Vote?” (I took off my headphones.)

“If I go down this street will I get to where I’m supposed to be?”

“To vote?”

“Yes - is this the right street?”

“Yes! Yes! I just came from there. It’s not too busy - the lines are pretty short. And if you hurry you can probably get to the corner while the crossing guards are still there so you’ll be able to get across that street.”

She smiled and continued up the hill. I should have warned her that the coast was clear. There were no roadblocks. No dogs. No state police. No hoses. She would be able to vote. And she wouldn’t even have to show her photo i.d.

I was sure that this was going to be one of the lowest turnouts in history, but I did what I had to do. I got out and voted. That girl, struggling with that baby stroller, managed to get out and do the same. Where the hell was everyone else? I don’t have kids going to those awful schools - where were the parents who should be taking an interest in local education? I’d told myself not to vote against the district. You hate the structure, you hate the unions, you hate the administrators, you hate the curriculum, you hate throwing millions at a system that should be abolished. But don’t punish the kids. But when I got to the school and saw the “Impeach Bush” bumper stickers in the parking lot, well…the cool thing about democracy is that you get to vote and you can keep your choice a secret.

I got into the house and told T: “Never let me do that again.”

He looked up from the computer and in Hues Corporation fashion:

“Said I’d like to know where, you got the notion
To walk to vote, don’t walk to vote baby
Walk to vote, don’t tip yourself over
Walk to vote, don’t walk to vote baby
Walk to vo-oh-oh-oh-ote….”

Smartass. After all I’d been through?