The Voice of Treason

“Great dogs - aren’t they!”

– George W. Bush to Maria Kaczynski, June 2007

I’m not sure there was all that much coverage of the warm welcome George Bush received in Albania, but there was mention of his trip to Poland. Journalists scoffed: Oh, jeez – look at that. He’s meeting the president of Poland and he goes for the dog.

Frankly, I would have done the same thing. If Tytus had been a Boxer I would have been down on my knees with my mouth on his muzzle and my arms around him. There are psychological tests, I’m sure, which analyze what it is people see first when they walk into a situation. Me? I’m always on the lookout for dogs. And if there’s one anywhere near me, I focus on it — like a laser beam — and seconds later I’m covered in drool and hair. I have, I fear, a canine addiction.

Which makes me think that something is missing from the 2008 candidates’ profiles. We know their birthdays, their alma maters, and the names of their wives and kids, but what do we know about their dogs?

I knew McCain and his wife have a lot of pets, including dogs, and I’m pretty sure I’d heard Mitt Romney’s family just lost their Weimaraner. Does Rudy Giuliani have a dog? I’m not talking a photo-op dog like that poor Buddy Clinton – I mean an actual family member. I just get the feeling he doesn’t.

This is something, I thought to myself, that I’m going to have to investigate further. Happily, someone (AP writer Calvin Woodward) has done most of the work for me.

Rudy Giuliani was just here for a private fundraiser — without much fanfare. Was in and out and that was that. He did manage to get Darren White signed on as his campaign’s State Chairman, and that’s a good thing. I like the Sheriff, and if I’m not mistaken his family recently adopted a pit bull that had been terribly abused. Hope that’s working out.

Why mention such a low-key visit? It’s just that Algore was in the area, too, this week. A little more fanfare, and I think he stayed longer. I only mention this because, since the recent Meet The Press meltdown, there has been some unfavorable coverage of our governor. The debates haven’t helped much, either, but the performance with Russert really hurt.

A local columnist was just brutal about Richardson’s responses and was reminded of a previous visit by Algore in which a reporter asked him how he liked our state. Gore said he liked Nuevo Mexico very much and had spent a good deal of time here. Encouraged, the reporter asked the next question:

“Which do you prefer: red or green?”

Awkward moment. Gore blurted: “Both!” To be fair, you can like both red and green chile – I do – but it’s politically incorrect when you’re in Nuevo Mexico to be that politically correct about our chile. The answer rang untrue; since when does Algore respond to a question with one word?

A better bet would have been to elaborate. To say, perhaps, that you like green chile stew, especially when the chile is really hot, but that it’s hard to have a favorite when carne adovada, smothered in red, is so irresistible. After all, Clinton liked Garcia’s when he visited; Bush prefers El Pinto. It’s okay to have a favorite when you’re here. We don’t mind.

Bill Richardson should know that. Red or green? Just pick one and stand by it. Red Sox or Yankees? We know – ugh – how the governor answered that one, and we know, of course, how the Mayor would respond. I just wonder how Rudy would have answered the chile question.

(Incidentally, the columnist also mentioned that, after Gore was asked about his chile preference, the reporter was excoriated – to put it mildly – by an aide. Evidently, the former Vice President and his staff hadn’t been prepared for such a difficult question. Considering his dedication to saving the planet, wouldn’t the obvious response have been green?)

You know the world is getting strange when Ann Coulter says it’s absurd that Paris Hilton was ever sentenced to prison in the first place, and Reverend Sharpton – incensed that Paris is, as Shep Smith described it, “loose now from the hoosegow” – says that we need to look at “fairness in how the justice system works” (or doesn’t work) – and I’m agreeing with Al.

She’s in, she’s out! She’s going back in! Yikes! And what is this “medical” condition? Drug withdrawal? Criminy, I know how out of sorts I’ve been when I realize I’ve left the house without mascara on my lashes, but I’ve never been hysterical.

But if it’s true that it’s unfair for someone to go to jail for whatever it was that Paris did, and that it’s unfair that she served only a few days, then was released back to her digs, then was sent back to the hoosegow; then what is it when Mary Winkler gets three years for shooting her husband? In the back. I don’t have a lot of experience with the court system because I’ve managed to obey the law up to this point, but isn’t what Mary did considered murder? Even if it’s manslaughter, isn’t three years a little light?

I’m thinking about Scooter Libby. Had he shot someone, the judge and jury might have been kinder. And what about that kid in Georgia? Ten years for a… for a… a Lewinsky?

I think the Reverend Sharpton has a valid point. I would hope, in his call for fairness and a review of our current system, he also considers the cases I’ve just mentioned.

You know when you think of someone and the phone rings – and it’s the person you were thinking about? Or you think about a song, and a few seconds later it’s on the radio? Or you think of an obscure movie as you’re channel surfing, and there it is? Those Twilight Zone moments in life.

Had one of those this week when I found myself led to a blog I hadn’t read before, saw something there, then checked my e-mail and saw the same thing sent from my sister. What was it? Oh, just that thing that pops up from time to time about the shelf life of democracies. That a democracy is “always temporary in nature” and “simply cannot exist as a permanent form of government.” That it will “exist up until the time that voters discover they can vote themselves generous gifts from the public treasury.”

“From that moment on, the majority always vote for the candidates who promise the most benefits from the public treasury, with the result that every democracy will finally collapse due to loose fiscal policy, which is always followed by a dictatorship.

“The average age of the world’s greatest civilizations from the beginning of history, has been about 200 years. During those 200 years, those nations always progressed through the following sequence:

1. from bondage to spiritual faith;
2. from spiritual faith to great courage;
3. from courage to liberty;
4.from liberty to abundance;
5. from abundance to complacency;
6. from complacency to apathy;
7. from apathy to dependence;
8. from dependence back into bondage.”

That from Alexander Tyler, a history professor at the University of Edinburgh, in 1787. Or was it Alexander Tytler? Or was it neither? I’d seen this many times before, always thought that it sounded too contemporary for 1787, but never gave it much thought. There is reason to believe that Tyler – or Tytler – didn’t actually come up with this.

A hat tip to whomever actually did – whenever it was. This always shows up in people’s in-boxes around election time or when someone produces a book with a title like Are We Rome? Gee, are we? I mean, how badly do we suck, exactly, and how close are we to self-destruction?

Some believe we’re hovering at number seven, but I think we’re probably at six. Pretty complacent are we, but selectively apathetic. Iranian-Americans are being held hostage in Tehran, NASA is sending the shuttle into space, and there are terrorist plots aplenty afoot.

Yawn.

Yet firefighters just saved puppies and kittens from a burning house, using tiny little masks over their tiny little faces. They risked their own lives trying to retrieve every last pet in the home. And California taxpayers financed the rescue of Delta and Dawn – two wayward humpback whales stuck in the Sacramento River.

See? We’re not completely apathetic. We’re still interested in what’s happening in the world. We still care. We still – oh! Update on Paris – gotta go.

“We’re here to mark that day in history when the Allied peoples joined in battle to reclaim this continent to liberty. For four long years, much of Europe had been under a terrible shadow. Free nations had fallen, Jews cried out in the camps, millions cried out for liberation. Europe was enslaved, and the world prayed for its rescue. Here in Normandy the rescue began. Here the Allies stood and fought against tyranny in a giant undertaking unparalleled in human history.

We stand on a lonely, windswept point on the northern shore of France. The air is soft, but forty years ago at this moment, the air was dense with smoke and the cries of men, and the air was filled with the crack of rifle fire and the roar of cannon. At dawn, on the morning of the 6th of June 1944, 225 Rangers jumped off the British landing craft and ran to the bottom of these cliffs. Their mission was one of the most difficult and daring of the invasion: to climb these sheer and desolate cliffs and take out the enemy guns. The Allies had been told that some of the mightiest of these guns were here and they would be trained on the beaches to stop the Allied advance.

The Rangers looked up and saw the enemy soldiers — at the edge of the cliffs shooting down at them with machine-guns and throwing grenades. And the American Rangers began to climb. They shot rope ladders over the face of these cliffs and began to pull themselves up. When one Ranger fell, another would take his place. When one rope was cut, a Ranger would grab another and begin his climb again. They climbed, shot back, and held their footing. Soon, one by one, the Rangers pulled themselves over the top, and in seizing the firm land at the top of these cliffs, they began to seize back the continent of Europe. Two hundred and twenty-five came here. After two days of fighting only ninety could still bear arms.

Behind me is a memorial that symbolizes the Ranger daggers that were thrust into the top of these cliffs. And before me are the men who put them there.

These are the boys of Pointe du Hoc. These are the men who took the cliffs. These are the champions who helped free a continent. These are the heroes who helped end a war.

Gentlemen, I look at you and I think of the words of Stephen Spender’s poem. You are men who in your ‘lives fought for life…and left the vivid air signed with your honor’…

Forty summers have passed since the battle that you fought here. You were young the day you took these cliffs; some of you were hardly more than boys, with the deepest joys of life before you. Yet you risked everything here. Why? Why did you do it? What impelled you to put aside the instinct for self-preservation and risk your lives to take these cliffs? What inspired all the men of the armies that met here? We look at you, and somehow we know the answer. It was faith, and belief; it was loyalty and love.

The men of Normandy had faith that what they were doing was right, faith that they fought for all humanity, faith that a just God would grant them mercy on this beachhead or on the next. It was the deep knowledge — and pray God we have not lost it — that there is a profound moral difference between the use of force for liberation and the use of force for conquest. You were here to liberate, not to conquer, and so you and those others did not doubt your cause. And you were right not to doubt.

You all knew that some things are worth dying for. One’s country is worth dying for, and democracy is worth dying for, because it’s the most deeply honorable form of government ever devised by man. All of you loved liberty. All of you were willing to fight tyranny, and you knew the people of your countries were behind you.”

– Ronald Wilson Reagan; Pointe du Hoc, Normandy, June 6, 1984 (the 40th anniversary of D-Day)

Why? Because he’s smart enough to realize that only FNC knows how to organize a political debate. T, the non-partisan, was so incensed after the first few minutes that he ran to the kitchen for a stopwatch. He counted up the number of questions each candidate was asked and he timed the responses. At one point he shouted:

“Thirty-five seconds! Thirty-five seconds into the answer and Wolf is already walking away from him!”

That buzzing sound (attributed to lightning), the faulty microphones, and the constant – and false – assurances from Wolf that every candidate would get an opportunity to address the topic were annoying but par for the course. Where’s Brit Hume when you need him?

I went into this expecting the usual, but looking for some specifics. I wanted to hear a candidate strongly support English as our official language. I wanted someone to say that the war isn’t just a slogan. I wanted to hear that it isn’t George Bush’s war – it’s our, America’s, war. I wanted someone to mention Teddy Roosevelt. I wanted someone to point out that Iran is a threat. I wanted someone to say that you can have faith and not reject science. I wanted someone to talk about nuclear power. I wanted some mention of China. I wanted to hear about tax reform and smaller government. I wanted to hear about enforcing the laws that already exist. I wanted someone to say that what happened to Lewis Libby was wrong. I wanted to hear the words “Islamic” and “terrorism” in the same sentence. I wanted to hear that socialized medicine is not the solution. I wanted someone to tag Wolf and the media. I wanted a little spontaneity. A little passion.

Each candidate delivered on one or more of the items on my checklist, and some were more articulate and convincing than others, but the person who said something about almost every issue I wanted addressed was… (drum roll, please) the Mayor.

And, on the point of who “won” this debate, T and I actually agreed.

So, during the Democrat debate, you’re subjected to some of the most appalling statements from individuals who’ve graduated from top universities and hold advanced degrees – the majority of which are law degrees.

Universal healthcare!
Universal education!
Free healthcare for all!
Free college degrees for all!
This is George Bush’s war!
This is a make-believe war!

And, after the debate, you’re subjected to hours of bizarre analysis from some of the most biased people on the planet whose primary interest is this:

Tell us — how did our network do during the debate?

And, after several hours of this, all I can think about is that old joke about the rabbi, the Hindu, and the lawyer.

Here goes:

A Rabbi, a Hindu and a lawyer were driving late at night, somewhere in the countryside, when their car suddenly broke down. Time passed and they soon realized that no other vehicles would be coming down this remote country road. They agreed to set out to find help, and stopped at the first farmhouse they came to.

The lawyer knocked on the door, and the farmer who lived there explained that he would be happy to let them stay the night, but that his home was modest and he had only two beds, suggesting that one of the travelers would have to sleep in the barn with the animals. Having so few options, the three quickly agreed.

After a few moments, the rabbi volunteered. “My people have been sleeping in barns for centuries – I’d be happy to spend the night there.” Minutes later, there was a knock on the farmhouse door. “Forgive me,” said the rabbi, “but there is a pig in the barn. In my religion, these animals are unclean – I cannot, in good conscience, sleep in an area where there is a pig.”

The Hindu responded: “I understand, my friend. You may take my bed, and I will sleep in the barn.” Minutes later, there was a knock at the farmhouse door. “I apologize, but I didn’t realize there would be a cow in the barn. In my religion, cows are the most holy, the most sacred creatures on earth. I feel it would be disrespectful for me to sleep next to such a special animal.”

The lawyer, annoyed but desperately in need of some sleep, exclaimed, “I have no issues whatsoever with sleeping with animals – I’ll go sleep in the barn!”

Minutes later there was a knock at the farmhouse door. It was the cow and the pig.

“You know, you’re right. Everybody is going to learn to speak English if they live in this country. The issue is not whether or not future generations of immigrants are going to learn English.”

– Barack Obama, CNN Democrat Debate, June 2007

Um… yeah, it is. Actually, I admit I didn’t see Barama when he said this. I didn’t “watch” the debate – I just listened to it because I was busy cutting out pictures from magazines. I was on the couch with a stack of old magazines at my feet (I knew there was a reason I was holding on to these things!), a rum & Coke at my side, and a pair of scissors in my hand.

It was a bold endeavor, and dangerous, too. To have a sharp object in my hand during one of these debates? Yes, there were times I wanted to launch them at Larry King. Yes, I wanted to use them to put Bill Richardson out of my misery. Yes, I wanted to use them on myself every time Hillary cackled. And, yes, I wanted to use them on Barama when he said “everybody is going to learn to speak English.”

The reason I was cutting out stacks of pictures from old magazines is that I am required to create a picture book in order to tutor the immigrant I will soon be assigned. No, Senator, not everybody is going to learn English – that is why I am cutting out these pictures instead of analyzing your suit and body language.

But allow me to mention our “proud governor.” Govzilla said he would improve American education. Joy! Was he going to say that in his first 100 days he would abolish the Department of Education and teachers’ unions, then shut down government schools? Of course not.

“I would upgrade our schools. I would have preschool for every American, full-day kindergarten. I would pay our teachers what they deserve. I’d have a minimum wage for our teachers, $40,000. I did that in New Mexico. We went from 49th to 29th.

I would bring science and math academies to get America more competitive. I would emphasize the arts. I would emphasize civics. Again, science and math. I would have universal education available for every American.”

Dude. Start here. Whatever you think you did isn’t working. There are Nuevo Mexicans who can’t speak English and, worse, we have graduates from Albuquerque schools who can’t read and write it.

There will be another debate on CNN this week. If there’s a Republican Tuesday night who has the balls to step up and propose that English should be the official language, I’ll vote for him.

“Libraries gave us power
Then work came and made us free
But what price now for a shallow piece of dignity

I wish I had a bottle
Right here in my dirty face to wear the scars
To show from where I came

We don’t talk about love, we only want to get drunk
And we are not allowed to spend
As we are told that this is the end…”

– “A Design For Life,” Manic Street Preachers

It strikes me as odd that this song, which to my ear sounds like a ballad, has become an anthem for the working class. James Dean Bradfield, guitarist for the Manics, reportedly intended the song to be a critique of those who felt that members of the working class were ill-bred, uneducated clods whose emotional depth amounted to whatever traces of stout was left in the bottom of their pint glasses. Somehow, though, this message was lost on the working class who adopted the song as their drinking anthem.

I hear it and the lyrics rip at my heart. When I see it live, the vision of bawdy fans swaying and singing along – usually off-key and raucous – is always disappointing. This is how you want people to see you? Aren’t you just proving their point?

The magic of America has always been what Ronald Reagan said, “our origins matter less than our destination.” An American can move up and out of poverty and isn’t sentenced to a life on the bottom rung. My only beef is that too often Americans confuse money with class and assume if someone has material wealth they also have the other. Some of the classiest people I’ve ever known have had humble beginnings, middles, and ends. And I’ve known just as many classless swine who have come from privilege. Go figure.

There’s something to be said for class – for people who just know how to conduct themselves and maintain high standards. I imagine there are two major components: self-respect and respect for others.

When I was watching the video of the ongoing riots in India I was confused. One explanation was that those who had started the riots are people who want to be classified as “the lowest of the low” in order to receive better welfare benefits. Why, I wondered, would anyone choose to be categorized this way?

The caste system in India has always seemed shameful, what with classifying a group of people as “untouchables.” These are members of the SC – Scheduled Castes – on the bottom rung of the social ladder. Above them, but only slightly, are the ST – Scheduled Tribes. One rung higher are the OBC: Other Backward Classes. Gujjars, it seems, are OBC but want to be reclassified as lower rung ST so they have a better shot at assured government quotas. Meenas, however, have a hefty share of these quotas and don’t want the Gujjars moving in on their benefits. Hence, the bad behavior in the streets of Rajasthan.

Hmmm. I know there are Americans who find themselves in similar situations. I once worked with an ambitious young woman who had the good fortune of falling in love with an older, and very wealthy, man. Their combined income after marriage put them in a tax bracket that, strangely enough, swallowed up almost her entire salary for the additional taxes they owed. She was, in effect, working for free – or worse, for the Federal Government. Her income was contributing to Uncle Sam, but not to her and her husband, who convinced her to quit her job. Then there are those who discover they make too much money to qualify for a particular government program or housing development, so they choose to drop down a rung in order to be considered “poorer.”

Lately, I find myself being seduced by this perverse thinking. I used to make a decent salary, but discovered I was being penalized for climbing the ladder in that the more money I earned, the more I had to hand over to the government. Knowing that a new administration in 2008 will roll back tax cuts and reward those on the lower rungs and redistribute wealth to them, what precisely is the incentive for people like me to seek a higher salary?

I used to think that working hard and earning your own way was the “classy” thing to do. That there was some sort of reward in it. But it’s become clearer to me that I, gullible little conservative me, have been misled. I fear I might be a victim of my own genetic makeup: Something in me is going to have me climbing that ladder again.

But with much less enthusiasm this time.

Answer: They both live off dead beetles/Beatles. Now it appears that Mrs. Lennon is living off dead Corgis. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problems with a good old-fashioned protest. And I have no issues, for the most part, with performance art. After all, in college, I was responsible for a little bit of it myself – a little thing I called “Hair Removal à la Boléro.” It was just me on the floor with a few simple props: a cassette recorder, a tape of Ravel’s Boléro, a candle and some matches, a jar of water, a can of shaving cream, a disposable razor, and a lot – and I mean A LOT – of homemade stage blood. My peers were mortified, but my usually expressionless professor – one of my all-time favorites – had tears rolling down his cheeks. I was pleased that I could amuse him to the point of snot.

But eating a Welsh Corgi? Whether Cardigan or Pembroke, a Corgi is not an entrée. Good Lord, one of the reasons I left California was that the Filipino lobby wanted dog meat sold in supermarkets. (Odd, since the Filipinos I knew were ardent dog lovers and could easily afford better cuts.)

I understand that different cultures eat different things. My mother remembers during the Depression seeing her parents one night in the kitchen eating chicken feet. Not because they were so poor – they were – but they just wanted to remember how much poorer they’d been in Italy. Ah, nostalgia! Pass that chicken foot! Most of the time, my mother recalls, the family didn’t even eat that much of what we would think of as Italian food. We ate like Americans, she said. We had potatoes, vegetables, roasts. We ate like everyone else. When we did have pasta, our mother would crack an egg and cook it on top of the sauce while it simmered. It was for my brother, Frank, she said. He was always sickly, so she would sneak him extra.

My mother raised us to be adventurous with food and since she always worked in restaurants owned by either Greeks or Italians, she’d take us to different places on her days off. We lived in a Jewish neighborhood and ate Jewish food. When my family lived in a Swedish neighborhood, they ate Swedish food. When Mom was in the South she ate boiled peanuts and drank Dr. Pepper.

There is little I will refuse. I’ve tried many things – I’ve eaten bugs and alligator, for goodness sakes. But I admit I don’t care for tripe and I draw the line at veal. Lamb can be wonderful, but I tend to avoid it. Goat, too, is tasty, but I don’t eat it. Beef tongue, kidney, trotters, offal, brains, sweetbreads, gizzards, headcheese… I generally pass on them. I had a tasty oxtail soup in Manhattan once, but I don’t keep tails on my grocery list. But I have been known to eat braunschweiger and I do know what sorts of odd things comprise it. (Aye, Chihuahua! Snouts!)

Yet if I show up at someone’s home and I’m served veal, I’m not going to make a scene. I’ll eat it. If someone hands me a bowl of menudo, I’ll – gag — eat the tripe. But I know if someone offered me a plateful of dog, I’d have to say no thank you. Even if I wanted to make some political point, I’d have to just say no to Fido.

Muslims, Jews, and even Seventh-Day Adventists avoid eating pork. But for them, there is something bad, something not kosher — dare I say not halal? — about pigs. They are unclean, forbidden. My primary issue with pork is that I like pigs very much and feel guilty about eating them. But, darn it, they’re just so versatile and tasty, and make my Ellis Island meatloaf a real winner.

I don’t get the whole pork and shellfish thing, but I do understand and respect the Hindu position on cows. Actually, there is much in Hinduism I agree with – especially their attitudes about the best way to dispose of a corpse. But the avoidance of meat, fish, eggs, and alcohol… I say, life is short so eat, drink, and be merry. If that means an omelette and a Bloody Mary, so be it.

But I do know what it is to consider a particular animal special – special to the point of sacred, holy. It’s how I feel about dogs. And if I’m going to Hell for eating a Porterhouse or a pound of prosciutto, then Mark McGowan and Yoko Ono will be going there, too.