The Voice of Treason

In this corner, in the green trunks: The Wall Street Journal! And in this corner, wearing red, white, and blue: The National Review! DING!!!

It’s a freakin’ rumble! T’ree of your best guys against t’ree o’ our best guys! Weapons? Youse can bring whatcha want – we’re bringin’ da facts!

I almost popped my spleen when I read about the “invitation” on NRO today. National Review has challenged The Wall Street Journal to a debate. Come out of the shadows, they taunt, we’re calling you out on this. I said I’d give my left nut – if I had one – to attend the dedication of The Victims of Communism Memorial, but I’d give both nuts – if I had nuts – to be at this debate.

This whole campaign of 2008, this whole debate on illegal immigration — it’s becoming clear to me that the two parties are in suspended animation. The way the Democrats are stuck in the sixties, I think too many Republicans are stuck in the eighties.

Again, in the late eighties and early nineties I worked for a Japanese company that looked, felt, and smelled – depending on who put what in the breakroom microwave – like the United Nations. George Bush 41 was running against Bill Clinton and I was vocal in my disgust. I felt like Bob Tyrrell, knowing – in every fiber of my being – that Bill Clinton embodied all that was repulsive about humanity and that if he was elected, the culture would shift. He was calling for change, and some of us knew precisely what kind of change he was talking about. I was engaged in non-stop arguments and was writing anti-Clinton editorials in our corporate newsletter. The paper’s editor, who thought Bill was “sexy,” actually censored me. I was incensed. I looked for support and noticed the immigrants who worked with me were awfully quiet.

“So!,” I asked them, “What do you think about this election?”

It wasn’t easy at first getting them to open up, but little by little they started to confide in me. It’s okay, I told them. This is America. You can say what you think. Who do you feel is better for the country?

“Coercion, after all, merely captures man. Freedom captivates him.”

– Ronald Reagan

I was talking to people who had come from places that were not free. Now they were here, they had good jobs – hell, many of them were my supervisors – and they owned homes and were raising their kids in a new country.

“We like Bush.”

I was on fire. Are you a citizen? Can you vote? What can we do to get you there?

Off the top of my head, most of the people who wanted Bush to win were from Nicaragua, China, and Vietnam. I’d had long conversations with my coworkers and even though they had come from different hemispheres and had different experiences, they all had come to the same conclusion: they loved Ronald Reagan. And they hoped that George Bush – 41 – would be the same kinda guy. They knew who Clinton was and they weren’t going for it.

I was so hopeful. This is the future, I’d thought. Like my grandparents, these people knew America. They knew the value of freedom. They were living the Dream. Only one person – a Socialist from Portugal who moved to Albuquerque when we did – was voraciously pro-Clinton. For several years we continued our debate in a different state.

But something has changed. I’m not sure that the new immigrants understand history as well as the ones I worked with in California did. The America they see is a different America – not the one my grandparents saw from the deck of that boat in the harbor.

And maybe they see something that it’s taken me much longer to see. Something has changed and voting isn’t going to fix the problem. If I believe in democracy and freedom for Iraqis and Afghanis, then it’s my responsibility to do whatever I can to help the cause here on our soil. It’s something I’ve wanted to do as long as I can remember but never got off my ass to do until now. I’ve become a volunteer for a local ESL program and I’m going to tutor the new immigrants. I’ll be helping them to read, write, and speak English and work towards citizenship.

If it’s true that Republicans have resigned themselves to the fact that the party’s over and it’s time to call it a day, then we’re just going to have to start over. And I guess the best place to start is with the new Americans.

I admit it. I found myself watching the Miss Universe pageant the other night. It was two things: I was surfing and saw the spectacular costumes – oooh! one girl had big dolphins over her head! — and I’d heard earlier in the day that Miss Tanzania had shaved her hair off (YES!!!). The Ellis Island meatloaf was in the oven and I had time on my hands.

“Whoa! Miss Brazil has some big bombocados!”

No response from T, who was busy working at the computer.

“That one’s pretty, but too skinny.”

Still over there typing.

“Miss India’s very pretty!”

Still ignoring me.

“I think she might have blown it on that evening gown choice, though. But Miss Venezuela picked a good one. Oh — Miss Japan is bold! She’s got sleeves!”

Type-type-type-type.

“Oh no! Poor Miss USA just fell on her ass!”

Type-type-type.

But during the interviews, when Miss USA was introduced, the booing began. T, oblivious to the pageant and my non-stop remarks up to this point, was out of his chair in nanoseconds: “WHAT THE F*CK?”

“It’s just such bad behavior. Remember the World Cup?”

Newspaper reports the next day pointed out that when the show went to a commercial break, a representative from the network chastised the audience and suggested that they behave themselves, because “this gives the world a bad image of Mexico.”

Yes, it does. One thinks of barbarians at the gates. Bar the doors and hide the silver, here they come. And this, we’re being told, is the future of the Republican Party? I know blacks and Hispanics in Texas voted for George W. Bush when he ran for governor, but has it ever occurred to anyone that maybe they were simply voting against the boozy old white woman?

I watched C-SPAN 3 on Memorial Day – four straight hours of biographical sketches of the presidents. These were completed in 1999, before our current one had been elected. Still, there was a segment on Bush, and there he was, looking much younger, delivering a speech about prosperity. No one, he said, would be left behind. The American Dream would be available to anyone who desired it. Criminy, the writing was on the wall; how could anyone have misread it?

But it made sense at the time. What we on the Right heard was what we believed about Conservatism. It was compassionate – always had been. It was all about creating one gargantuan pie so that everyone would have a slice. Our goal was to eliminate the underclass, to educate and elevate every individual, and to ensure that each person who works towards the Dream is rewarded with that big slab o’ pie.

But our just dessert has become one big pie in the face. I knew Laura Ingraham would have something to say about the booing in Mexico City, so I tuned in and heard a caller — Alejandra – who was raised in Mexico but is here, legally, waiting tables and homeschooling her child. She explained that what they teach in south of the border schools is hatred for America – hatred for us, she said.

She was concerned about the “brown tide” headed our way because she herself had waded through it. Too many Communists, too much anti-American sentiment. It’s just not going to be a good thing for our country.

But what about the assertion that these people will bring a new spirituality to America? No, she said. Do not be fooled. Religion is different for these people. They pray to God expecting to get something, as if God were a genie who grants wishes. That’s their version of religion.

I have lived in the American Southwest for most of my life, and most of that time was in Northern California. It is offensive that those who are concerned about this amnistia bill are being called racist. And shame on Linda Chavez, a native Nuevo Mexican. Not only did she underpay her Guatemalan illegal (room and board and a measly $1500 over two years?), but she has written an absolutely vile column.

“Some people just don’t like Mexicans — or anyone else from south of the border. They think Latinos are freeloaders and welfare cheats who are too lazy to learn English. They think Latinos have too many babies, and that Latino kids will dumb down our schools. They think Latinos are dirty, diseased, indolent and more prone to criminal behavior. They think Latinos are just too different from us ever to become real Americans.”

Linda, Linda, Linda. Don’t even. But, unfortunately, she continues.

“… We need to quit pretending that the ‘No Amnesty’ crowd is anything other than what it is: a tiny group of angry, frightened and prejudiced loudmouths backed by political opportunists who exploit them.”

Prejudiced? Excuse me, Linda, but when my grandparents came through Ellis Island after huddling on a boat with masses from Europe, all yearning to be free, the same things were said about them. Dumb dagos – they breed like rabbits. Was that offensive? Yes, in that my grandparents weren’t dumb. But, truth be told, they did breed like rabbits. However, they – and all their bunnies – quickly became Americans, embraced their new culture, and learned not only a new language, but also what it was to be an American. They assimilated. They melted into the big pot.

To be fair, Chavez does mention that what she says about Mexicans was said about every other group that settled here. Gee, if we are such racists, how is it that we are the most diverse nation on the planet?

The article, and her assertion that anyone who is against this legislation is a hateful bigot, is disappointing because I like her. But it’s even more disappointing that the president who I’ve been defending for so many years has just accused me of the same thing. This, I fear, is going to put a damper on our relationship.

But Linda Chavez is correct when she says that the anti-illegal immigration people are “angry” and “frightened.” I’m seriously pissed off, no doubt about it. And, yes, I’m frightened, too. Because, unlike Linda and the rest of those who are lost in a romantic haze on this topic, I live in the real world.

Another article that’s raising some hackles is from one of my favorite atheists, Heather MacDonald. In it, she explains that it is not nativism that is causing conservative opposition to the Senate bill – it’s facts.

Again, as someone who has spent thirty-seven years out here in the West – most of it in a post-Reagan California – I can say that MacDonald’s facts are accurate. I know what’s going on in the schools and hospitals and government agencies and barrios. I’ve spent a lot of time in these real world places.

I cordially invite those, like Linda Chavez, who think we’re just being xenophobic and mean-spirited to spend a little more time in this world, too.

I called our vet’s office this morning and as I was on hold, I listened to some talk radio exchange about Bill Richardson. A guy and a girl were debating the significance of Richardson’s comments on baseball. I guess I missed this, but it sounded like Richardson had appeared on Russert’s show and claimed he was both a Red Sox fan and a Yankees fan. Russert pointed out that a person cannot be both. There are laws in baseball, and Richardson was clearly violating one of them. The guy was taking Russert’s position on this; the girl was annoyed that men put too much stock in stupid stuff like baseball. Exasperated, the guy sputtered:

“I just want a candidate that can pick a baseball team, okay?”

Funny, but I’ve been thinking the same thing. Yesterday was Memorial Day and I was wearing my usual Memorial Day shirt. It’s the American fashion icon, the indispensable cotton T-shirt. I just saw one like it on eBay this week. Someone’s selling his, but I’m hanging on to mine.

I remember when I bought it. The Mayor appeared on QVC, explained that we couldn’t let the economy take a hit, too, and pointed to a simple white T-shirt with a red, white, and blue heart on the chest. A sewing needle and thread was pulling the two halves of the heart together. A simple design, but there was something about it that struck a chord.

It was a limited edition, he said, and net proceeds would be contributed to the Twin Towers Fund. Shop to show your support. It’s funny how we scoff at that now, but at the time it made good sense. I grabbed the phone, unaware that I’d soon be out of a job, and ordered my shirt. (Truth be told, I ordered two. One is still in its original plastic.)

If Rudy Giuliani wanted me to buy this T-shirt, I was going to buy this T-shirt. The shirt probably doesn’t make a damn bit of sense to those who see me in it – there’s a heart on the back made up of designers’ names and the words “Fashion For America” beneath it – and I am certainly no fashionista these days, but there’s just something about that heart on the chest. It’s symbolism, I know, but it means something to me. My heart broke on that September day, and it hasn’t yet been sewn back together. I don’t expect it ever will be.

When I heard that exchange on the radio this morning, I thought: Rudy Giuliani is a candidate who has a team. No excuses, no political correctness. He is clear on his support for his team. When asked, “Which team do you want to see win?,” we know what his answer will be.

He understands that whole team concept: loyalty to one big team, one big town, one big cause. He can be counted on to be vocal. But I just have to ask: Does he think that all the illegals coming across our southern border, from a place that just booed the USA, are going to become Yankee fans?

The three of us – T, me, and the dog — were standing at our local high school in the middle of the grass when four F-16s from Kirtland Air Force Base did a Memorial Day flyover. They seemed to be lower than usual, right over us, and those few seconds were exhilarating. I found myself quoting Ron Silver.

“Those are our planes!”

And they were ours, too – those planes that flew into buildings and gave us a reason to bicker over the design and construction of memorials. I went online to see what’s been going on at Ground Zero. It appears that Swamp White Oak trees are being dug up in Rensselaer County to be transported to Lower Manhattan. When the memorial is complete, visitors will walk through a grove of trees that are commonly found in New York, Pennsylvania, and the D.C. area. I’m certain there will be a plaque that will explain this to them.

There were several news stories this weekend about the progress of the Pentagon Memorial. The company that will design and build it was chosen in August of 2003; dedication is scheduled for fall of next year.

Holy Hannah. A new Wal-Mart goes up in a matter of weeks – once everything gets through the courts. Why are these memorials taking so long? For an answer, you can visit any of the memorial websites and look at the schedules and timelines. This is an agonizing process for everyone involved. So much red tape, so many signatures, so many steps, so many hurdles to clear.

There’s another memorial being built and I’m not sure how many people are aware of it. Thanks to National Review, which has a progress report in its most recent issue, I now know that The Victims of Communism Memorial is, after twelve years, getting closer to its June dedication ceremony. There was an article about it on NRO in December of 2005: at that point, there was hope that the dedication would be in the fall of 2006. Uh, not so fast. These things take time.

The ceremony in the nation’s capital is slated for June 12, and I’d give my left nut – if I had one – to be there. It’s funny – well, not really – how our culture has come to think of the Communist threat as quaint. We shy away from the C-word and use the S-word instead. Socialism just sounds nicer, doesn’t it?

There are those lovely Socialists in Cuba. In the universities. In Venezuela. They’re just being… well, social. And generous, too. Danny Glover got a film project financed by one of them. The one who is claiming, by shutting down a popular TV station and booting 3000 people – artsy types like Glover — out of their jobs, that he is simply “democratizing the airwaves” and giving the network’s signal back to the people.

Which people? The ones that have been protesting and getting gassed in the streets? It is to laugh. Hugo Chavez seizes a network that criticizes him and ours here still refer to him as a “small s” socialist president. Yet our networks have no issues whatsoever referring to George Bush as a fascist. A Nazi. What — did our president pull MSNBC off the air and I just haven’t noticed?

Holidays call for a holiday meal, and although Memorial Day is better known for its grilled burgers and hot dogs, I have decided that I will prepare a meat loaf. It had occurred to me a few months ago that I had never actually made a meat loaf, possibly because I’d never had a loaf that was so astounding, so memorable, that I had to pull out the bread crumbs and ground beef to construct one.

I went online to peruse recipes and found a very dependable one that lends itself to a healthy dollop of artistic license. In other words, one can manipulate this recipe and it is so good that it’s practically foolproof. I have taken liberties with this loaf on many occasions in the past few months and haven’t screwed one up yet. Allow me to share the original recipe here first (found on a local supermarket’s website and provided by Good Housekeeping), then offer my improvisations.

The Original Recipe:

A Sausage and Pepper Meat Loaf

Prep: 30 minutes
Bake: 1 hour 10 minutes

Ingredients
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 red peppers, chopped
1 large onion (12 ounces), chopped
1 large garlic clove, crushed with garlic press
1 pound sweet Italian-sausage links, casings removed
1 pound ground beef chuck
2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups fresh bread crumbs (about 3 slices bread)
1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1 can (8 ounces) tomato sauce
1/2 teaspoon salt

Makes 8 main-dish servings.

First of all, I never measure out my olive oil. I tend to pour until I feel I have the appropriate amount. And since my mother had been taught to cook by a Tuscan neighbor, I tend to use a sizeable chunk of (unsalted) butter along with the olive oil.

Next, I like variety in my bell peppers. I’ve never actually made this loaf with the required two red peppers. Not just because red peppers are pricier, but I appreciate the flavor of the basic green pepper. I’ve used two greens here, but more often I use one red and one green for contrast. This is Nuevo Mexico, after all, and red and green are significant colors here. I also like the way the red and green peppers look with the white onion in the skillet. It’s an Italian thing.

And here is where I’m tempted to call this “Liberty Loaf.” When I prepare this weekend’s dinner I intend to use a combination of red, green, yellow, and orange peppers. (In past loaves I’ve introduced a bit of roasted green chiles. This is Nuevo Mexico, after all.)

I don’t know how many ounces my onions weigh – I just grab a good-sized one and chop it up. (Note: I chop all my vegetables by hand and prefer a non-uniform size.) As for garlic, I don’t mess with the press; instead I drop chopped or minced garlic (whatever I have in the jar) into the sauté.

The key to this recipe is the quality of sausage. It’s hard to find a really good Italian sausage, but I’ve managed. A local market sells packages of ground Italian sausage – hot or mild – and I buy it on sale and stock it in my freezer. I choose the hot. And it is.

Here is where you can really take liberties. I’ve used good quality lean beef and I’ve used the cheaper stuff. I’ve also used ground turkey. Since the primary flavor is the hot sausage, I suggest using whatever ground meat you prefer.

Two eggs. The first time I made the loaf I just dropped two eggs into the mix and blended with my fingers. Now I prefer to break the eggs into a glass and whip them with a fork before mixing.

Bread crumbs. Again, I like non-uniform chunks when I cook and I crumble my own bread. The recipe calls for three slices, but I usually use more because when all is said and done I have more meat, vegetables, cheese, and sauce in the bowl than what the recipe actually calls for. Here is where you can experiment. I’ve used wheat, multigrain, ciabatta, focaccia with garlic and rosemary, stale rolls – and combinations of whatever leftover bread types I have on hand. I like a sturdy bread, so I recommend something substantial.

Parmesan. I use more than what the recipe calls for. A lot more. And sometimes I use a blend of Italian cheeses. And sometimes I use all of the above. Use your judgment.

Tomato sauce. You can get a little crazy here, too. I had been using basic canned sauce, but I buy 15 ounce cans and I don’t want it leftover sitting in the fridge, so I use more sauce, thereby requiring slightly more ingredients to balance. I make a mighty loaf. I’ve used varieties of jarred sauce, too, but still try to keep it pretty basic. If I find I have too much sauce while I’m mixing, I rub whatever’s left over the loaf before it goes into the oven.

I don’t use salt when I cook because there’s usually more than enough in the existing ingredients. (The sauce is loaded.) And I don’t care what that @#$%^&* Michael Savage says about it, I will continue to be liberal with black pepper. I sprinkle both a coarse black grind over the loaf and a coarse seasoned pepper before it goes into the oven. And because I’m generous when I “measure,” the loaf will usually require a slightly longer cooking time (it’s huge). I’ve never overcooked one, and even when the outside gets a hard crust on it, the inside is moist. I insert a meat thermometer when it starts looking like it’s close; adjust temperature according to the meat product you choose. (I also use a large Pyrex dish with non-stick spray here.)

I have served this with either rice or potatoes (garlic mashed are always a fine choice), steamed broccoli, asparagus, sautéed zucchini and yellow squash with or without mushrooms, a mix of corn and lima beans, or my absolute personal favorite: green beans.

I call it many things: Ellis Island Loaf, Liberty Loaf, or — as T prefers — Freedom Loaf. It’s very good the next day and T has discovered that it translates exceptionally well to casserole. We use a modified tuna casserole recipe, incorporating penne pasta, varied cheese, cream of mushroom soup, and chunks of the meatloaf (you can add roasted green chiles if you like) — and we scarf that down like wolverines.

This recipe is flexible and can be dressed up or down. The key is to keep it hearty, yet affordable. Can be served with beer or wine, or just about anything your heart desires. Perfect for Memorial Day, Columbus Day, or any day. Unless, of course, you’re a vegetarian. I haven’t yet made one with faux meat, but I imagine it’ll happen eventually.

It’s Memorial Day weekend and everyone knows what that means: three days off and some blow-out sales at the mall. I have a sense that too many people think this is actually Labor Day weekend… or even Veterans Day weekend… just one of those interchangeable three-day weekends that seem to crop up every few months. With WWII vets dying off in such great numbers and fewer cities holding Memorial Day events and parades, how is the average person supposed to know the significance of this holiday?

A good place to start is at a memorial. It’s where T and I found ourselves last night, and I’m ashamed to admit it but it was completely unintentional. We were taking a shortcut to our destination, next to a library, and found ourselves in the middle of a quiet, beautifully landscaped park with winding pathways and small benches tucked in tranquility. A cottontail, nibbling at grass, stopped to look up at us, then continued chewing.

“What is this place?”

And then we saw the walls of the monument. It appears we were standing in the middle of Rio Rancho’s Veterans Monument Park, a still garden of expertly maintained, colorful xeric native species, all carefully placed there by local Master Gardeners. I moved closer to the walls and saw that they held memorial bricks and plaques honoring the veterans and commemorating the series of conflicts in our nation’s short history. There was a plaque for the Revolution and one dated for 1812; plaques for the Civil and the uncivil; for the World Wars and the Spanish-American and Korean; a plaque for Lebanon, a plaque for Grenada, for Bosnia, and for Somalia. Someone had placed a small white geranium at the base of the main wall.

“I had no idea this was here.”

And I should have. More and more, I’m noticing memorials in other places: trees at the larger city and even smaller neighborhood parks now have plaques at their base, dedicated to those who have died, serving in our military. Trees are now specifically planted for this purpose and I always take a moment to read the plaques and say the names aloud.

I’m paying more attention to parks these days, always looking for an interesting spot to take the dog. And I’ve noticed more people are using the parks. There are those, like me, who are there with their dogs, and those who bring their children. Older people sit and watch; some find a quiet spot to read or have a cigarette. Families arrange barbeques, parties, and games. People stop under trees, on a break from work, for a little fresh air and a solitary lunch. Sometimes I’ll sit and swing for a while. We’ve noticed others doing this, too. We saw a woman park her car, walk to the swings, and stay there a very long time.

“Why is that?,” T asked.

“If you liked swings, you’d know.”

I like swings and I like these parks. I like neighborhoods that have parks – parks that I’d never really thought much about until recently. So many are like hidden treasures, nestled away, secrets to be discovered quite by accident.

We stumbled across a lovely one this week and intend to visit again.

Um… I gotta ask: What’s with all this crying? Just when I thought that John Boehner was starting to grow on me a little (I was getting this odd Humphrey Bogart vibe off him and I admit I kinda liked it), he snots up on the Senate floor. And it isn’t the first time this has happened. But it’s not just Boehner – Robert Byrd was bawling the other day, which prompted Laura Ingraham to ask: When exactly is it appropriate for a man to cry?

Callers immediately responded. “Laura! How ‘bout that last scene in Field of Dreams?”

You know, “Wanna have a catch?” I remember how much I needed to see this movie when it came out because I’d read the Kinsella book and was curious how it would translate to film. But I was outnumbered on a double date and had to sit through a different, crappier film. Annoyed, I pushed my mother and sister into the car the next day and told them that we were going to go see a movie.

It’s still so clear, like it was only yesterday. The film ended, we walked up the carpet out of the darkness, and the first thing I saw was a middle-aged man slumped over the candy counter, pulling napkins out of the stainless steel holder, sobbing uncontrollably. I still see him today. Dark hair, moustache, a bit of gray at the temples.

I’m with you, buddy. I lose it there every time. T sits and watches me, transfixed, as I mist up, then start blubbering. And he’s dry as a dead dingo’s donger. (Sorry, I saw that line in The Economist a while back and it just stuck.) That scene just doesn’t do it for him. He says he gets more choked up when Moonlight Graham is standing there on the gravel, knowing that if he crosses over to pull that hot dog out of the kid’s throat, he can never go back. But he crosses anyway.

“Hey, rookie! You were good.”

So T chokes up… but doesn’t shed a tear. This got me thinking. When have I actually seen him cry? Let’s see… we first met the year Field of Dreams was released, we started dating officially in ’91… I’m thinking, I’m thinking… yes, I think it was when his dog – the dog he grew up with and who was even more of a brother to him than his own brother – had to be put down. I was there with them in the vet’s office and I’d brought a roll of paper towels with me. Good call. Years passed, we moved here, and we got the call from the vet after the exploratory surgery on our Boxer. He hadn’t known my Barbara Ayn as long as I had, but when he heard that it was pancreatic cancer and that there would be no point in bringing her out of the anesthesia, he slumped over the same way the guy in the movie theater did.

He has cried over our dogs. When he was protecting them from that pit bull, he took the brunt of the attack and spent the night in the emergency room getting stitched back together. He was torn open, covered in blood, and he didn’t cry then. And as much as he hates needles – and there was a lot of sticking going on that night – he didn’t cry about that, either.

So I can’t help but be reminded of another movie. Bambi. My other sister was dating the guy who would be her first husband and they took me to see the re-release of Bambi at the 400 Theater in Chicago. At that point… “Your mother can’t be with you anymore” … some guy a couple rows behind us just starting giggling. He couldn’t stop. He was guffawing, tears streaming down his face. I remember my sister wanted her boyfriend to do something. Something that would make him stop laughing and set his sorry ass straight.

“You want me to beat him up?”

It was a defining moment. I was six years old and I was witnessing something important. What was a man to do? Cry when Bambi’s mother is killed? I could tell from my sister’s reaction that laughing wasn’t the appropriate response. But if a guy cried, could he be tough enough to beat the stuffing out of a guy who was laughing? So what, precisely, did a woman want? A guy that would cry along with her, or a guy who would knock another guy’s Raisinets out of his mouth?

I was confused. I’m still confused. Like Laura, I have to wonder: When exactly is it appropriate for a man to cry?

Maybe over children, over parents, over best buddies, over best canine friends. Over soldiers slain in battle and maybe, at some point, over you. But on the Senate floor?

“It is time for you to stop all of your sobbing
Yes it’s time for you to stop all of your sobbing
There’s one thing that you gotta do
To make me still want you

Gotta stop sobbing now
Yeah, stop it, stop it
Gotta stop sobbing now…”

“Ev’rywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy
‘Cause summer’s here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy
But what can a poor boy do
‘Cept to sing for a rock ‘n’ roll band
‘Cause in sleepy D.C. town
There’s just no place for a street fighting man…”

Eeez juz sooooo woooosy. I use the term “woosy,” not “wussy,” because there’s just this oozy, soggy, wet, limp, overcooked linguine type stickiness that permeates the culture these days. Where’s the backbone? Where’s the garbanzos? Where’s, as my feisty little Italian mother always called it, the gumption?

I’ve been reviewing the sorry list of 2008 candidates and I’m looking for some oomph, but I’ve been hard-pressed to find any. I have separated the contenders from the pretenders, but I’m still not ready to commit to anyone in particular. Romney is appealing on so many levels, but I can’t get past this peculiar uneasiness. I was reading a review of Four Novels of the 1960s by Philip K. Dick in the latest issue of National Review, and Kelly Jane Torrance ends her article with a character’s quote from one of the novels (The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch):

“Isn’t a miserable reality better than the most interesting illusion?”

And isn’t that what politics has been for many of us? A most interesting illusion? I like that Mitt Romney is so smooth, so polished. I like that he’s articulate, witty, quick on his feet. I like that he looks like someone I want to see getting on and off Air Force One and representing the nation. I like that whole retro vibe I get from him. But I have to ask: Is this the right time for Romney?

“Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.”

Another line from Philip K. Dick. Reality is harsh, and once you brush away the illusion of political promises and high hopes, and the illusion of the perfect candidate and how he or she is going to make the world a better place, you’re just left with hard, cold reality.

Dick, in How To Build A Universe That Doesn’t Fall Apart Two Days Later (and how’s that for a title?), wrote:

“The basic tool for the manipulation of reality is the manipulation of words. If you can control the meaning of words, you can control the people who must use the words.”

And isn’t that what politics has been for many of us? Oops – I already said that. It’s all talk, all promises, all the manipulation of words. This is now political reality. And another one from Dick:

“Sometimes the appropriate response to reality is to go insane.”

No, I’m not talking about McCain here. Or maybe I am. I’m looking at the Democrat candidates and it’s the Clinton machine that can get into the gutter, roll around in the sludge, get dirty, but manage to make the other candidate even dirtier. McCain can get mean, he can get angry, but he just comes across as nuts.

I’m looking for thick skin, toughness, grit. I want the candidate that I’d feel safe with, the two of us walking down a dark alley together at three in the morning. Is that Romney? Could be, but he’s got to start getting a little more fierce.

Is it Hunter? Possibly. Gingrich? A tad too intellectual for a brawl. Thompson? Maybe. Tancredo? He does have those Italian genes. But it’s looking like Giuliani again. He can be tough, he can be feisty, he can fight back and not blink.

If the campaign of 2008 was a cartoon – and sometimes it feels like it is – it might boil down to South Park’s “Hildog” versus the Republican. And I can only think of one other cartoon dog – I see him every time I open my closet and see my old sweatshirts. It’s “Rude Dog.”

Rude Dog Giuliani. My only question: Is this dawg up for a good street fight?

“Maybe it’s the hair. Maybe it’s the teeth. Maybe it’s the intellect. No, it’s the hair.”

– Tom Shales

There was a time when citizens didn’t know what their leaders looked like. Sometimes, when I’m watching C-SPAN, I get the distinct feeling that there are some who still don’t. But worse, there are those who vote specifically not on issues but on looks.

“I won’t vote for that guy – he looks like a crook.”

I had no female friends in the nineties because I couldn’t find a woman who hadn’t voted for the “sexy” candidate. “He’s sooooo cute!” Yeah, so was Paul McCartney, but I didn’t want him to be president. Already there are grumblings about Fred Thompson. He looks tired. What’s with the full set of Samsonite under his eyes? Didn’t he used to have hair?

“We’re teaching our kids that attributes as vague and relatively meaningless as a toothy smile or a fine head of hair make a fine statement about a person.”

– Neil Cavuto

The campaign of 2008 is shaping up to be the campaign of hair. The Year of the Coif. I do recall jokes about Reagan’s pompadour, but I don’t remember hair being a political issue until the Clintons showed up. First, Bill’s shifting hair color (it’s gray! no, it’s brown!) and his pricey cut on the tarmac; then Hillary with her headbands and peculiar series of hairdos.

“I’m undaunted in my quest to amuse myself by constantly changing my hair.”

– Hillary Clinton

That’s not all she likes to change, but I’m just going to focus on hair here. We were shocked when we found out that Bill was spending so much on his hair; then came John Kerry. And now John Edwards spends more on his hair in a month than what (he calls) “the little guy” makes at his “little job.”

Mike Huckabee got the biggest laugh of the debate with his line about the Senator from North Carolina; pundits suggested that Mitt Romney muss his hair just to look a little less perfect.

After the debates on MSNBC, the analysis was all about how the candidates looked. Chris Matthews seemed obsessed with Hillary’s accessories. Panelists agreed that her hair passed muster, but some are calling for a softer, fuller silhouette.

Like I said, I will vote for the woman… if she shaves her head. Seriously, how many times have you watched a woman getting her hair cut? My hair has been long, down to my waist, and it’s been short as peach fuzz, but I’ve never once cried during a haircut. Even when very bad things have happened to my head – ridiculous cuts and colors, disastrous perms – I’ve never shed a tear. Why? Because it’s just hair.

Two things I respect about my mother: She never spent money at a salon because she always cut her own hair, and she only carried a purse when she was toting tips home from the restaurant. She went purseless on her days off, and once she stopped waiting tables, she never carried a purse again. Women will never truly lead the world if they’re tied to their handbags or obsessed with their hair. To know real power, they need to just let go of both.

T has been cutting my hair and because we can’t find a pair of scissors that can slice through it, he’s been using clippers. Now the back and sides have been shaved off, and, like that surrey, there’s some fringe on top.

If couples are looking for trust in a relationship, I suggest they cut each other’s hair. If Hillary wants to establish some trust, Bill should shave off her hair in prime time. Hell, why even televise debates? No one’s listening to anything the candidates are saying; why not line them up, instead, and watch as they all get their heads shaved?

“If Edwards gained 60 pounds and lost all his hair, he’d look like Dick Cheney!”

– Neil Cavuto

You will know a lot about a person when you know the relationship with his – or her – hair.

“The long, dull, monotonous years of middle-aged prosperity or middle-aged adversity are excellent campaigning weather for the devil.”

– C. S. Lewis

The last time T’s mother came to visit she seem preoccupied. Still in her fifties, she is thinking about retirement. She’s worked for a major corporation for more than two decades, has invested as long as T can remember, and lives alone. Yet she expressed some concern about how she would be able to afford to live after leaving employment. T and I stood on the patio and the subject of our own retirement came up. He looked at me, inhaled his Marlboro, then exhaled:

“I say, when the time comes, we do a House of Sand and Fog.”

I discussed this with our friend, Bob, who lives in the Bay Area. Like T’s mother, he has only himself to support, and he’s making six figures. We talked about my mother’s situation, and his position on the Golden Years was clear:

“Why do you think I own a gun?”

T calls his plan a “voluntary carbon reduction program.” Under his proposal, we live our lives and go about our daily business, but as soon as it’s clear we are no longer capable of supporting ourselves, we off ourselves. In House of Sand and Fog, he brewed her a cup of “special” tea, and then he wrapped a plastic bag around his head. I actually prefer Bob’s idea. There is something quick and certain about a piece of lead in your head.

Thinking we were on to something novel, I soon starting seeing reviews of Christopher Buckley’s latest, Boomsday. In it, his disgruntled Generation W heroine modestly proposes that our government, to alleviate the strain of millions upon millions of Boomers turning 65 and draining entitlement programs dry, should offer incentives to the Boomers to kill themselves and ease that burden off the younger generations. This suicide plan would be called “transitioning.”

But don’t we have those incentives in place now? What with the death tax scheduled to skyrocket in the next few years, doesn’t government already dictate to oldsters that there are better times to die than others? The problem, of course, is that there’s no reward in it for the Boomer. At least in Buckley’s world there are perks.

Our local newspaper offers magazine inserts in the Sunday package, each one designed for a different demographic. There is one that is particularly offensive, even though it is designed to appeal to someone in my age group. It’s called “Boomer.” And if that isn’t disturbing enough, there are a series of websites devoted to this generation, the most recent “Boomer Towne.” Oh – you haven’t heard? Sixty is the new forty. Look. I turned 40 once; I do not wish to do it again. I saw Davy Jones on TV last week. I remember clearly what Davy Jones looked like in 1965 when I was five and he wasn’t: I’ve changed considerably since then – he hasn’t.

Some people just seem to be aging too well. A 60 year-old woman just delivered twins. T was surprised – shocked even – to learn that Mitt Romney is 60; a local talk radio listener who watched the Romneys on 60 Minutes called to say he thought the hot blonde sitting next to Mitt was his daughter.

But as much as I like Mitt Romney, I’m looking forward to the day when we no longer have Boomers in office. Between their addiction to Botox and their addiction to patchouli leftover from their Glory Days, these hipsters turned oldsters have worn out their welcome.

No one has asked the obvious question. If these people can’t even parent and control a household, how are they supposed to be adult enough to run the country? I know Boomer parents who have no concept of the rule of law. Parenting for them is merely a system of bending the rules. Whenever someone suggests a program to prevent a specific behavior, Boomer parents are first to say that it doesn’t matter what the program is, kids are going to do it – no matter what “it” is – anyway. Worse, because their kids are just going to do it anyway, they make their homes available to do “it” in. If you’re going to smoke that, smoke that here. If you’re going to drink that, drink that here. The kid’s paramour is allowed to sleep over, and in some cases, allowed to move in. And the worst thing the Boomer parent can do – after providing no boundaries and allowing the rule of law to be violated without consequence – is to treat siblings differently. What’s fair for one isn’t fair for the other. It’s obvious Boomer parents are making up the “rules” as they go along.

And so it’s abundantly clear that Boomer politicians have applied this logic to the illegal immigration problem. Since there’s no way we could possibly find eleven… twelve… fifteen… twenty million people, we have no choice but to let them stay. We can’t stop them from coming here – they’re going to do it anyway.

Locally, Boomer parents who weren’t aware that their son was failing a class two weeks before graduation pressured the teacher and principal to raise his grade to a “D” so he could finish high school with his peers. And the Mayor’s hard-line approach to the BioPark vandals I wrote about yesterday? Already a somewhat different “agreement” has been reached.

I don’t know if it was all the flower sniffing, pot smoking, or black lighting in which the Boomers immersed themselves during their Glory Days, but whatever it was it has made them turn woosy.

If you need any more convincing, go back and watch this past season of 24.