The Voice of Treason

Do I need to adjust the D-List again, taking Joe Biden out of the “Running” category and moving him into “Jumpers,” or what? Republicans, forever suffering with that irritating “congeniality chromosome,” have been kind about the Democrat contenders for ‘08, but here comes Joe, loaded for bear.

On Hillary:

“Everyone in the world knows her. Her husband has used every single legitimate tool in his behalf to lock people in, shut people down. Legitimate. And she can’t break out of 30 percent for a choice for Democrats?”

On her Iraq policy:

“From the part of Hillary’s proposal, the part that really baffles me is, ‘We’re going to teach the Iraqis a lesson.’ We’re not going to equip them? Okay. Cap our troops and withdraw support from the Iraqis? That’s a real good idea.”

On John Edwards and John Kerry:

“…Perfect blow-dried candidates…”

“I don’t think John Edwards knows what the heck he’s talking about.”

“So for me, what I think you have to do is have a strategic notion. And they may have it — they are just smart enough not to enunciate it.”

On Edwards’ Iraq policy:

“…like so much Fluffernutter out there.”

On Barack Obama:

“…the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-lookin’ guy…I mean, that’s a storybook, man.”

Maybe Biden can explain this one away by saying he “borrowed” the thoughts from someone else. He’s apologized, of course, and explained that he didn’t intend to offend. I, for one, am not offended because I believe discourse like this is wonderfully refreshing. I say we need even more “Fluffernutter” in our vernacular. I’m just hoping to hear the word “horsefeathers” from our side.

There have been times when I’ve wondered if my life has become that episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. You know — Season 3, Episode 23? It’s the one in which Mary Richards strays from being perfect. She’s nominated for a Teddy Award, but then her dress (gorgeous, tasteful) comes back from the cleaners with a giant stain on the front of it. Somehow, by the time she gets to the awards banquet, she’s wearing a borrowed dress (a garish, inappropriate floral thing), and she’s limping (she’s sprained something), she’s wheezing and sniffling (the world’s worst cold), and her hair has a peculiar “bump” in it. I think she even loses a false eyelash. And, of course, she wins and has to get up and accept the award in front of people who don’t realize that this isn’t normal for her.

“I usually look so much better than this.”

When I heard the story of Brandy Britton, I was reminded of that episode. Go online and you’ll find dozens of articles. A bright, beautiful young woman from a small town in Oregon is the first in her family to go to college. Her professors remember her as brilliant. She majors in biology and sociology and dreams of becoming a veterinarian. A professor tells her: “It’s not enough to study the problems of the world. We have to do something about them.”

So she becomes an activist, earns two degrees - with honors - and raises two children. Her interests have turned to women’s studies, and she volunteers at a battered women’s shelter, then helps create the university’s first “safe ride” program to escort women on campus at night.

By age thirty she was earning her doctorate in Sociology from the University of California at San Francisco and would soon be teaching sociology and anthropology at the University of Maryland. There, she founded the Institute for Women and Girls Health Research in her home. The home where she allegedly ran a prostitution service.

No pun intended, but what the f*ck?

If this woman had played the piano and had been black, she might have been Condi Rice. If she’d met Bill Clinton, she might be in the Senate, running for president. She was smart, beautiful, had big boobs, and earned the academic credentials to create a successful life for herself. And she was a “Mom.” That’s supposed to make for a perfect life, right?

But things happen. A few unwise choices and a streak of bad luck, and suddenly everything goes to hell in a handbasket. She gets caught falsifying data on a questionable study funded by over a half million grant/taxpayer dollars; coworkers take a disliking to her; she files for bankruptcy; her house is in foreclosure; and her neighbors start complaining about the number of male visitors at all hours, her peculiar “work” schedule, and her two pot-bellied pigs.

Legal problems ensue. And then, on Saturday, she hangs herself. A blog reads: “The Suicide of Brandy Britton: Women’s Studies Prof/Federal Grant Defrauder/Prostitute/Pig Owner.”

They do studies in which they ask women about their futures and these women are set. They’re smart, they’ve saved, they’re respected in their chosen professions, and they’re independent. I’ve met a lot of them. And the other thing they have in common is their terror of becoming bag ladies. I joke about ending up under a viaduct with the pigeons myself, so I understand perfectly what these women are thinking. Too many thought feminism was the cure, independence was the goal, and financial security was power. But even with the right resumes and money in the bank, they imagine that it’s all going to go poof one day.

For Brandy, it did. And out of desperation she turns to the oldest profession? This is liberation? What made this story especially disturbing was that I’d just been reading Deroy Murdock’s article in National Review about Ayaan Hirsi Ali, “the iron lady of Somalia.”

“When I first came to a Western country, I was astonished to find men who said, ‘Ladies first.’ I was amazed because I was born and raised in a culture that put me last because I was born a girl.”

Her bio is compelling and, having lived in two disparate cultures, she argues:

“Human beings are equal; cultures are not…A culture that holds the door open to her women is not equal to one that confines them behind walls and veils. A culture that encourages dating between young men and young women is not equal to a culture that flogs or stones a girl for falling in love. A culture where monogamy is an aspiration is not equal to a culture where a man can lawfully have four wives all at once…

Unfortunately, it is this culture that is under threat today. Many of those born into it take it for granted or, worse, apologize for it. Let’s join together to protect this culture of life, this culture of liberty, this culture of ladies first.”

I wonder if Dr. Britton, who was also committed to doing something about the problems of the world, was familiar with Ali’s works.

I didn’t, but I knew they were coming. I’d heard early today that Barbaro’s long battle ended this morning. I know it might sound silly to mourn the death of a horse I’ve never met, but it’s always difficult when so much effort is put towards something and then, in the end, a decision has to be made. It’s inevitable, and we all know that on some level, but when that time comes, knowing doesn’t make the decision any easier.

When someone reminds me that I shouldn’t be sad over the death of an animal because there are so many more important things to be concerned about, I’m always reminded of Charles Krauthammer’s tribute to his black Lab, Chester. I’ve mentioned it here before and have put most, if not all, of it on The V.O.T.

“Some will protest that in a world with so much human suffering, it is something between eccentric and obscene to mourn a dog. I think not. After all, it is perfectly normal, indeed, deeply human to be moved when nature presents us with a vision of great beauty. Should we not be moved when it produces a vision — a creature — of the purest sweetness?”

Barbaro was certainly beautiful, and noble, too. And to those who knew him best, he was a sweet horse who didn’t deserve to live in pain. May he soon run again in the fields that await him.

Yes, it’s Code Pink again. Women can shout “pull out” all they want, but it would really serve them better to adopt a philosophy that would make that particular phrase completely unnecessary. Women can gripe about the government wanting to control their bodies, but I’ve always thought females would be further ahead if they could just learn to control their own for a change. But that’s not what Code Pink was yapping about over the weekend. Their “pull out” message was directed at those candidates running for the presidency in 2008, especially - as they pointed out - to Hillary Rodham Clinton. I guess they were referring to our troops, but I was hoping they were saying that about the majority of ‘08 candidates. You know who you are - please stop wasting time and money and pull out of the race before you embarrass yourselves any more than necessary.

The message I really wanted to hear from the weekend was from the “undercovered” conservative summit, so I tuned into Rush, hoping he’d have some bits of speeches or discussions that weren’t reported in the news. Instead he played our national anthem, sung by the Senator from New York. Yeah, yeah, I’d heard that, too, when I watched her in Iowa, but I didn’t want to criticize her vocal skills because, let’s face facts, not all of us are Judy Garland.

Still, my concern about Des Moines was what wasn’t coming out of Hillary’s mouth, and I’d mentioned that here on Saturday. What’s getting the coverage, though, is her line:

“What in my background equips me to deal with bad and evil men?”

Of course, everyone was reminded of her husband’s inability to keep himself in his pants. Maybe it’s prehistoric, but one reason I can’t take Hillary seriously or respect her is that I’m a huge fan of monogamy, and there is no way I would tolerate infidelity. Happily, I’ve found a partner who feels the same way and it goes without saying that if either one of us is intimate with another, the relationship (sixteen years so far) is over. Yes, I know it’s old-fashioned, but I still send greeting cards, too. Sue me.

Knowing that Laura Ingraham was actually at the summit, I tuned into her show (it’s just criminal that Rush and Laura are on at the same time), but she was focusing on the anti-war rally on the Mall. I’d had enough of that on C-SPAN over the weekend so, after an hour or so, I switched back to Rush. He was singing. Rush, I’ve already rewritten the lyrics to “They Call the Wind Maria,” regarding John “They Call the Windsurfer Pariah” Kerry here many times on The V.O.T., but thanks for the effort.

I just wanted to hear something from Jeb and Mitt. Oh - I did hear from Rudy Giuliani over the weekend because C-SPAN was kind enough to offer something other than Hillary in Iowa and Bill in New York at the book party for Terry McAuliffe. It was Rudy in New Hampshire. Got to hand it to the mayor - he’s always interesting to listen to, and he has a sense of humor. His best lines were about a Republican actually being elected as mayor of New York. How did that happen? His answer: They were desperate. It sounds like a funny line, but it was, unfortunately, the truth. I visited the city when Giuliani was mayor, after years of wanting to see it but believing that I probably never would. Like I’ve said here before, I generally felt more comfortable - safer - walking around New York than I ever did walking around San Francisco, Oakland, or even parts of San Jose. Pointing out that he was the first Republican mayor in twenty-five years, he got a good response when he added that he was the first in fifty years who actually stayed a Republican. He’s warm, he’s animated, he’s spontaneous, and he’s optimistic.

What I did hear from the conservative summit was a desire for a Reagan - an optimist. Everyone’s running around trying to sound like Reagan and convince us that they’re Reagan reincarnated, but Giuliani is actually talking about optimism. Not a bad message. Unlike Hillary, he was also talking about the threat of terrorism, tax reform, and tort reform - my three T’s. (When was the last time you heard someone even say “tort reform?”)

Mike Huckabee’s “exploring” officially as of today, and that’s good to hear. I know Mitt Romney spoke at the summit and reaction was mixed. Jeb seemed to get the best response from the conservative crowd, but then, like Barbara Bush, Jeb was always our favorite Bush kid, too. Didn’t sound like he scored points on immigration, but he was sound on other issues and had some good lines of his own, like: “I’m not going to criticize the President of the United States.” But more important was his advice to “stop moping.” And “Don’t act like Democrats. It does not work.” He advised boldness, reform.

Add those to the list: Optimism, reform, boldness. So, okay, everyone was out flapping their gums over the weekend, but I have to give the award for best line to Brit Hume. The panel on FOX News Sunday was discussing John Kerry’s remarks in Davos, and Bill Kristol was particularly offended, pointing out that when he was away from home, in places like Europe, he didn’t badmouth the country or the Clinton administration. Brit was quick:

“…is it really fair to John Kerry, to argue Bill, that when he’s in Switzerland he’s away from home?”

Good one.

I was reading Brookhiser’s article in my most recent issue of National Review and discovered something about him that I didn’t know. Generally I can always count on him for well-crafted sentences, a few new words, a lesson from history, literature, art, popular culture, science, music, theology - have I left something out? - and when I finish reading him I always feel like I’ve just eaten something that not only tastes good, but is good for me. There’s always at least one line in a Brookhiser piece that makes me stop in my tracks and read it aloud, savoring the construction of it, the sound of it. An example:

“I am a noticer of cemeteries, especially small, forgotten, forlorn ones: family plots, cemeteries of towns that have vanished, cemeteries from colonial times…There are four within ten minutes of my house. One is still taking customers; another is a handful of crooked gravestones like busted teeth in a bum’s mouth.”

“Like busted teeth in a bum’s mouth.” I liked the sound of that and it seemed just right. He’s a joy to read because of the recognition factor - that thing that elicits an “I do that, too!” Or an “I’ve seen that/felt that/thought that!”

So I thought I knew something about him - I’ve been reading him for ages. What I didn’t know until now is that Richard Brookhiser is a lesbian. Not that it matters, mind you; I just find it surprising, that’s all.

He has probably revealed this in past articles I’ve read, but for some reason it just didn’t register until now. Richard Brookhiser drives a Subaru. And you know what that means. Especially if it’s an Outback. It’s a lesbian car - everybody knows it.

Even our local radio talk show host, who believes that you are what you drive, insists if you drive a Subaru Outback, you’re a lesbian. End of story. Yet Kathy Belge, lesbian activist, has compiled the 2006 list of top ten top lesbian cars and the Outback isn’t even on it. Number one spot belongs to the Subaru Forester. (She was going to make the Outback her top choice, but then she test drove a Forester and fell in love with it.) Maybe Brookhiser drives a Forester, who knows? Doesn’t matter. A Subaru’s a Subaru. Outback or Forester - Brookhiser’s a dyke.

When I recently shaved my head, I’d make my regular trips to PetSmart and I couldn’t help think that people would take one look at me - bald, Birkenstocked, loading giant bags of kibble into my car - and think that I was a tad butch. After all, I was loading dog food into my…okay, I admit it — my Outback.

See, I’d sworn I’d never drive a Japanese product. I was faithful to AMC (stop your snickering) and was determined to always drive American vehicles. My stepfather took me car shopping when I was applying to colleges and we checked out every car dealership on El Camino Real, from Sunnyvale to Palo Alto. I was infatuated with British cars, but even I knew - after my brother’s experience with his MGC-GT - that this wouldn’t be a practical choice. My stepfather was open to the idea of Japanese cars - rather broad-minded, considering he was almost shot down by those people during the war - but he just couldn’t get into them. I mean, physically. It was just impossible for a man his size to get behind the wheel of an average seventies model Japanese car. He tried, we laughed, and then I ended up with my brother’s 1974 Mustang II when he bought a Volvo. And that’s a whole nuther story.

I’d been driving…and towing…my 1984 AMC/Renault Alliance and had often entertained the idea of getting something more reliable. When someone pointed out that it was silly for me to be so adamant about not buying a Japanese car when I worked for a Japanese company, I had to agree. So when we moved out here I looked at Hondas first and was unimpressed. Didn’t even want to consider a Toyota. So I ended up test-driving a Subaru and was pleasantly surprised at how well it handled and how expertly it was constructed, inside and out. But I didn’t buy one.

Years passed and our friend Bob was visiting. He convinced me that it was time to part with my sixteen year-old car and get something serious. But it had been years since a new model had even caught my eye. There just wasn’t anything out there that could seduce me. And then I saw it. We were on a Subaru lot and I’d heard it call my name. I was in love with a car.

But first I had to test drive the Forester. It didn’t fit Bob, who’s very tall, and I could tell he was unimpressed. T didn’t like it’s odd triangular shape. But my heart was set on a station wagon and I still wanted an American car, but an American made station wagon at that time was a rarity. So we went to the Saturn dealership. When I compared the Saturn wagon - a vehicle that felt like a seventies era Japanese car - to the Subaru Outback, the Subaru, a thousand pounds heavier, felt more like the American station wagon I coveted. I was sold. And I went back and bought the model that had called to me that day.

T drives a big American truck, but it’s more convenient when we take the dog with us to put her in the wagon. The Outback is a great dog car - what can I say? And I assume it gets better mileage than his pick-up, so we take my car a lot. And he drives. So, like Brookhiser, he’s a lesbian.

Er…not that there’s anything wrong with that…

It’s quickly turning into an all C-SPAN weekend. I’d missed the first few minutes of the National Review Institute’s Conservative Summit last night, so I turned on C-SPAN again today to try to catch them. But before I could watch the repeat of the summit, I had to wade through the anti-war rally on the Mall and a town hall meeting in Des Moines with Hillary. I knew it was Hillary because that’s what all the big blue signs said. (”Clinton” showed up in tiny letters, like a disclaimer, in the name of her website at the bottom of the signs.)

It was called “Let the Conversation Begin.” I had to watch. There was much conversation, true, about women and the work they do, about children and whatever it is they do; climate change came up, and so did Big Oil and the need for alternative fuels. Education was a big topic of conversation - probably because government schools are made up of so many women and children. Even dwarfism was mentioned. And then, of course, there was the subject of healthcare. (If at first you don’t succeed…)

One guy stood up, grabbed the mic, and asked Hillary what she was going to do, as president, about diabetes and obesity. I know a little something about the issue myself. My mother’s siblings had problems with diabetes and my mother found out she was diabetic on Election Night in 1998 when she fell into a diabetic coma - surprise!!! - and was rushed to the hospital. Her blood sugar was over 1000. She’s diabetic, and T and I spent several years caring for our diabetic dog. Like our vet said: “You guys know more about it than I do. You’ve lived it.”

I know that diet and exercise play a role, and I know that the disease runs in my family. I’m at that age when I should seriously consider changing my diet and dropping those fifteen…or twenty…extra pounds. This is something I am responsible for doing. Me. My diet, my body, my health.

Happily, I can now say that I don’t have to give up MoonPies or get off my ass because Hillary Clinton is going to fix diabetes and obesity in America. I’m headed to the kitchen - I’ll be right back…

…I’m back. Got a beer here. Hell, if Hillary’s going to tackle my extra pounds, I might as well have brought the whole 12-pack in with me. What a gal! So I’m watching this, right, and occasionally my eyes start glazing over. Did they glaze over completely and did I lose consciousness? Whoa - was that a diabetic coma? God, I hate to have to watch this meeting all over again to make sure I didn’t miss it, but I just can’t recall (sounds a little like Hillary, doesn’t it?) any mention of the T-word. I’m not sure I heard anything about abortion or immigration, either, but I’m pretty sure there was no conversation about TERRORISM. Impossible. There had to be. I must have been in the kitchen searching for MoonPies after her pledge to end obesity.

Please, if someone saw this and TERRORISM came up, please let me know so I don’t have to subject myself to another viewing.

What I was happy to watch twice was the summit. Kate O’Beirne, Laura Ingraham, Michelle Malkin, Kathryn Lopez, Mona Charen, and a sharp, articulate audience. One woman, in particular, a Chicagoan named Suzanne (although I can’t guarantee that’s the way she spells it), stood up and made some excellent points.

She described quite well what it is we’re doing - we’re “trying to enact a revolution in Iraq.” And she’s concerned about how something so important, so momentous, can be so trivialized in the media and by our politicians.

“We’re in a situation where one party prides itself on its support for our defeat…a party that is actually proud of relating to its role in Vietnam…proud of their role in bringing around that defeat…and they have taken no responsibility for the millions of deaths that followed. We’re in the same place now…and again no one is holding them to any responsibility.”

I would say something, but I think Suzanne pretty much said it all, and said it well. I just wish more people would say it. Let the conversation begin.

Pariah: someone who is despised, rejected, and avoided

“…I’ve never seen our country as isolated, as much as a sort of international pariah for a number of reasons as it is today.”

– John Kerry

Before I knew Pariah’s name
And heard him wail and whinin’
I named him churl cuz he ate Brie
And ever since then he’s pinin’…

Wasn’t I just saying earlier today that Kerry had been sitting in a special category (”They call the windsurfer ‘Pariah’”) before I put him back in “Jumpers?” Who’s he callin’ pariah? Mon dieu! First Carter with “malaise” and now Kerry with “pariah.” And he says it in Switzerland?

Just more proof of his cowardice.

Cowardice: (Middle English cowardise, from Anglo-French coardise, from cuard) lack of courage or resolution

Some additional paperwork has been filed since the last update, but there’s no “big” news, really. However, I’m forced to consolidate many of my categories because the landscape has shifted again. Originally I’d put John F. Kerry in the “Jumpers” category - after his botched joke about our military - but when he insisted it was actually a botched joke about our Commander-in-Chief and still intended to run, I created a special place for him entitled: “They call the windsurfer ‘Pariah.’” I said Dennis Kucinich would run long before he said it, and he had a category to himself, too: “In the pinko.” John Edwards has been in a category that requires no explanation: “Hasn’t stopped running.” Today several of those “special” categories will go away, and their occupants will move into others. They - the categories - will be missed.

The D-List:

Running:
1. Tom Vilsack
2. Joe Biden
3. Barack “Barama” Obama
4. Chris Dodd
5. John Edwards
6. Hillary (and Bill)
7. Bill Richardson
8. Dennis Kucinich

Starting to make noise:
9. Wesley Clark

Waiting to hear something:
10. Algore

Possible add-ons:
11. Howard Dean
12. Nancy “Mee-Mee” Pelosi
13. The Reverend Sharpton

Jumpers:
1. Mark Warner
2. Russ Feingold
3. Tom Daschle
4. Evan Bayh
5. John F. Kerry

The R-List:

Running:
1. Duncan Hunter
2. John McCain
3. Rudy Giuliani
4. Tommy Thompson
5. Mitt Romney
6. Sam Brownback
7. Tom Tancredo

Waiting to pounce:
8. Newt Gingrich

Running whether we like it or not:
9. George Pataki

There’s been talk, but which party?:
10. Michael Bloomberg

And speculation:
11. Chuck Hagel
12. Mike Huckabee

Please…not now and not another so soon:
13. George Allen

Since everyone else is, I might as well do it, too:
14. Jim Gilmore

In the same boat, but not necessarily the Titanic:
15. Jeb Bush
16. Condi Rice

Won’t run if nominated, won’t serve if elected:
1. Richard B. Cheney

Jumpers:
2. Bill Frist
3. Frank Keating

Is it safe to say that Pawlenty isn’t in the race? Or is he just holding out for a shared ticket with McCain? Is there anyone out there who isn’t running? These lists, frankly, are much too long and need to be pruned. On the one hand it’s wonderful that so many candidates are hoppin’ on the presidential bandwagon, but it’s also a waste of time and money for some of these people to even consider that they have a chance. Yeah, yeah, I know that anything can happen, but you can take a glance at these lists and know who’s just taking up space. Are they just holding out for something else? I hope so, because it’s too frightening a thought to believe that some of these contenders really think they have a shot. Our political system is turning into American Idol. And that gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Years and years ago, I worked with a pretty brunette who loved to travel. It was her dream to become a travel agent - one she realized - because she just adored anything European. She even met and married a Belgian.

“Where will you go next?,” I’d ask her.

“Oh…maybe England again. Or France.”

“Not Italy?”

“Maybe Italy. Milan or Venice - but never anything south. Not ever again.”

“What’s wrong with the south?”

“It’s just disgusting, that’s what. I had to take this train one day. I was forced to sit next to people who brought their lunches - and their goats. Can you even imagine that?”

Yes. I could imagine that. And I knew at that moment that this is where I would one day spend my tourism dollars. I wished I could get on that train. The one with the goats.

It was like when I was eleven or twelve and my hippie cousin and her French husband took me to the Renaissance Faire in Novato. We spent the night at a place I’ll never forget - a place I would visit again with other family members - because I believed it was the most perfect spot in the world. I can’t remember her name, but she was this larger than life, warm, generous, bawdy soul who owned a chunk of land that seemed to attract a lot of oddballs. I recall an enormous house with a bar and restaurant, and little cabins scattered across the property. And animals everywhere. I sat one morning eating breakfast with a fat cat on my lap, and dogs stopping by to see if I’d share something with them. There were birds of all types, livestock, and I swear there was even a monkey. My hands were tired from all the petting. This is paradise, I thought. (Actually, it was probably more like my mother’s house. If you recall, in high school I had to share the couch with not only dogs but lop-eared rabbits, too.)

Neighbors loathed this woman. The authorities were routinely called to investigate. She has animals there, they’d say. Food and animals. Together. In the same area. Aren’t there laws about that? Eventually she was driven out - I think someone finally torched the place to make her and her animals go away.

What is this weird “can’t-have-animals-around-food” thing people have such issues with? Um, may I remind you that animals are food in many cases? The reason I ask - and it’s not only because it’s something I’ve always wondered about - is that there’s that news story about the introduction, in the state of Washington by a Democrat Senator, of legislation that would allow people to take their best friends into bars with them. Their four-legged friends. Specifically, their dogs.

Hell, I’d go to a bar where there were dogs. “But dogs can transmit disease,” critics say. Humans transmit disease, too, and they’re allowed in bars. A lot of people have no qualms about going to a tavern — essentially a meat market — and making contact with strangers they know nothing about. I’d prefer to meet someone and his dog, wouldn’t you? After all, you can tell a lot about a person by the way he treats his dog. Who knows — people might even drink less if they know they have to drive home with their dogs in the car. Patrons might feel safer accompanied by their dogs. These bars might even start attracting a better clientele.

This isn’t mandatory, of course. It’s up to the business owner if he or she wants to invite leashed, well-behaved canine citizens into the establishment. Jeb Bush signed a similar “doggie dining” bill in Florida, making it legal for people and their pets to share a meal outside. There are local businesses here in Albuquerque that permit customers to bring dogs on the patio where food and beverages are served.

This, to me, is great news for both business and the consumer. If a local pub opens its doors to customers who want to bring their dogs and business increases, then the owner and his patrons are probably both happy. Patrons who don’t wish to be in a bar with God’s most perfect creatures will be able to patronize other establishments, I’m sure. So what’s the issue? It’s more freedom, as far as I’m concerned. More choice.

Senator Jacobsen, I raise my glass - and my dog’s water bowl - to you.

Tony Soprano: Listen, you need some start-up cash, you know, until the insurance settled on the restaurant comes -

Artie Bucco: Hah! Insurance! There’ll be an Italian president before I see any insurance money!

I’ve been watching The Sopranos on A&E - can you tell? It’s the super-edited version of the series, but it’s fun to watch because it’s the only place where you can see Mafia goons beat, stomp, and kick the ricotta out of someone, all the while shouting: “Ya big stoopid jerk!” I don’t know, but I just don’t get the feeling that this line showed up too often in the original HBO scripts.

See, I didn’t watch the show when it began on the other channel because, like my early aversion to 24, I just didn’t want to commit to a regular series. I just didn’t want to get involved. Now I’m involved.

T giggles like an idiot when we watch - especially during the scenes with Tony’s mother Livia. He just cracks up and then looks over at me. I admit, Nancy Marchand - an actress I’d long admired - looks and sounds nothing like my little Italian mother, but I can’t help think the writers have known plenty of mothers like mine.

I’m reminded of a recent visit. My mother, who hasn’t yet lost her sense of humor, was giving up a drop of blood for the glucose meter when she held up her finger and declared: “Look! Dago red!” It was the same day we were watching FNC and Rudy Giuliani appeared on the screen.

“They’ll never let an Italian be president.”

“What? Why not?”

“He’d make the White House a harem.”

“Ma. Enough about your lecherous brothers. We’re talking about Rudy Giuliani, not Bill Clinton.”

But she might just be on to something. She’s old - old as Yankee Stadium - and old enough to remember when Italians were black. I have to admit, 2008 is going to be interesting because so much attention will be paid to the woman who’s running, the African-American who’s running, and the Hispanic who’s running. Eh! Whadda ’bout da wop?

You have to understand something about the Italians. There’s this “thing.” No, I’m not talking about Cosa Nostra - I’m talking about that Italian/Sicilian thing. That thing that makes Sicilians consider themselves Italian, but makes Italians point out constantly that they’re not Sicilian and that their family comes from north of Rome, even if they’re really from Napoli. Especially if they’re from Napoli. Cuz Napoli might as well be Calabria. And Calabria might as well be Sicilia. And Sicilia…well, Sicily’s Africa.

Hey, I didn’t say it. Millions of Italians, like my grandfather, have been saying it forever. Remember, he’s the one who practically disowned my aunt Emma for marrying a Neopolitan. That north/south thing’s crazy, I tell you. To me, it’s ridiculous to claim you’re a Northern Italian. Hell, everyone knows that means German.

My mother still claims her family is from the North. Eh - they’re mezza-mezz, as far as I’m concerned. Abruzzo looks sort of middle of the boot, south of the calf, if you ask me. That means I can go either way. I can appreciate both Italia and Sicilia - both Europe and Africa.

It’s weird and it’s too much like that thing black girls would do when I was in school, comparing hair texture, noses, and rolling up their sleeves to compare skin color. Black, blue-black, brown, yellow, high yellow - what the hell are you people talking about?

Oh, don’t get me started about Italians, Sicilians, and the size of their noses. That’s a whole freakin’ chapter. I guess I’m “Italian” because I have the classic Roman nose - I got da bump - and I’ve got that weird toe that you’ll see on Roman statues. You know, the toe next to the big toe that’s like an inch longer than the rest? What’s up with that, anyway? What - does that make it easier for us to hang from tree limbs?

I’m not one of those furry little dagos with the kinky hair and brown eyes, either. Not that there’s anything wrong with that - it’s just that people look at me and try to tell me I can’t be Italian. True, I’ll give them that, because technically I’m an American - it’s my mother’s family that’s from Italy. But you know what they say: If your mother’s Italian, you’re Italian. Still, I’m told that I’m too tall, too fair, my hair and eyes are the wrong color. Eh - you people obsessed with stereotypes, or what?

But I do remember, even when I was a kid, that my mother always said that her father told her that there would never ever be an Italian president. (In a dialect I always thought made him sound a little “below the knee,” if you get my drift.) He also said that he liked the Irish because they were so funny and charming, but that you had to watch out for them because they could never fully be trusted. (They used to be black, too, you know. Before the Italians came here and were black, giving the Irish a promotion.)

So where does that leave Rudy Giuliani? I mean, aren’t we making progress here? Mee-Mee Pelosi’s the first Italian Speaker of the House - and she’s a woman. The daughter of a mayor. But Rudy’s the mayor. America’s mayor. They always say governor’s better than senator, but mayor of New York City? Dat’s a bigga deal, no?

A quick comparison. Bill Richardson is the governor of New Mexico (yes, it’s a state - look at the map) and Rudy was mayor of the greatest city in the world. Hey, as a native Chicagoan, I hate to admit it, but even Hillary went over to the other side. I love New York.

The state of New Mexico has a population of almost two million people. Yeah, we’re creamin’ Wyoming on the whole population thing. The city of New York has over eight million. It’s a freakin’ country because there are people from all over the world on that island. Ask John Rocker.

See, unlike some of the other candidates, Rudy has a record. It’s already been analyzed to death and there have been multiple books and TV movies. Ask James Woods. We have photos of Giuliani in a dress, his medical records are public record, and his love life is legend. What don’t we know about the guy? He practically told that Arab to shove that ten million dollar check up his oasis, so we know he has garbanzos. We’ve seen the best and the worst - what else is there?

It’s important to note that, while Dems are scrambling to get to the left of every other candidate on the issues, the Republican frontrunners are supporting Bush and the war. Remember, I like Romney and I like Huckabee, but if Rudy’s the nominee, I’ll support him 100%. Not because he’s an Italian, because - like me - he’s an American. No, I’ll support him because he can do the job.