The Voice of Treason

Why is Michael Chertoff getting a bad rap for his “gut” feeling? Mr. Secretary is merely getting in touch with his feminine side – isn’t it obvious? I mean, isn’t that what we women do? We, the intuitives, just get that “feeling” and that’s what guides us?

My gut feeling is this: Yes, there is a very good chance that we’re going to get hit again – no doubt about that. The rest of my gut tells me that a terrorist attack is not going to be a wake-up call for a complacent America. No, instead, this will be spun by the other side thusly:

“See? We were right! Iraq has made us less safe!”

That we haven’t been attacked since September 2001 and have thwarted numerous plots means nothing. That was a fluke. The Bush administration hasn’t kept us secure. Republicans are not the party of national security. (This will work, and no one will question it by asking: “But I thought you guys said there were no terrorists!” The response will be: “There weren’t! But now, because of Bush and Cheney’s policies, there are!”)

It’s because my mother and sister consumed true crime books the way some people eat Pringles. I have inherited my mother’s criminal mind: Like her, when I hear the early details of a criminal case, I can smell a rat. I hear what a suspect says and when it just doesn’t add up, I get… well, that gut feeling.

I call it the “Charles Stuart vibe.” I’ve mentioned here before how my mother heard the first reports of this case about the young Bostonian, Chuck, who lost his pregnant wife, and immediately determined that he was a murderous liar.

“Hell’s bells – when you’re blacking out you don’t say: ‘Oooooh… look at me, I’m blacking out!’ That guy’s full of sh*t – he killed her!”

My mother can smell a perp a mile away. Like her, I formulate crimes in my head and am surprised that none of these have actually come to pass. And that’s what makes me nervous. So many opportunities to kill, maim, and destroy, yet… so far… nothing has happened.

The longer they wait, the more comfortable we get. Our attention span is short; theirs is not. We want it now, they are patient. They have time.

Ours is running out.

The BIG story is about Katie slappin’ the snot out of a writer over a word she’d rather not have seen in her copy: sputum. I believe she deserves credit for admitting she assaulted this person, but the fact that she snapped and slapped reminds some of us that this is standard operating procedure for women who lack grace under pressure. Isn’t Hillary known for smacking people around? Or does she just fling heavy objects?

CBS is wondering if they want to keep a woman behind the anchor desk; Democrats are wondering if they want one behind the desk in the Oval Office. If Hillary is the candidate, Katie’s job is secure. A woman’s perspective on 2008 – that could have some ratings potential.

But some speculate that Katie may be off the desk and moved directly to Sunday nights. If there is to be a 60 Minutes overhaul, may I suggest Andy Rooney’s replacement? Here are some random thoughts from Dr. Sowell…

“The same people who think it was wonderful that the Warren Court forbad government to assign children to schools on the basis of race think it is terrible that the current Supreme Court has recently stopped local governments from assigning children to schools on the basis of race.”

“A month doesn’t go by without several offers to lend me money arriving in the mail. Where were these people when I was broke?”

Yes, I can see it now… “A Few Minutes with Thomas Sowell.” Why, every Sunday night America could tune into CBS and raise its I.Q.

Our little paper here in Albuquerque publishes a variety of monthly magazines that it inserts in its Sunday package, and one of those is called SAGE. It’s for women. In the most recent issue, the cover story featured women who had it. The itch, that is.

“Whatever you call it – post-menopausal zest, empty-nest euphoria – there comes a time when you pour on the enthusiasm and surge into a grand new life!”

Funny, when men have this feeling, this itch, it’s called “midlife crisis.” Well, it’s good to know that when I turn fifty there will be no crisis — I’ll just be scratching myself. Women with “the itch” in this story changed careers, started new businesses, and threw elaborate parties for themselves. One woman celebrated her 66th birthday by throwing a Sweet Sixteen party on the anniversary of her 50th. She decorated the house with black vinyl disks (we called these 45s), and wore a pink poodle skirt; guests wore fluffy prom dresses.

Just one question: Is there a product on the market that can relieve this itch? If so, send a case immediately to Cindy Sheehan, who is currently in the throes of one ginormous scratch fest.

“When I come home feelin’ tired and beat
I go up where the air is fresh and sweet (up on the roof)
I get away from the hustling crowd
And all that rat-race noise down in the street (up on the roof)
On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let’s go up on the roof (up on the roof)…”

The controversy began when it was revealed that Seamus Romney, an Irish Setter, routinely traveled in a crate strapped to the roof of the family car. No, it wouldn’t be my first choice for canine accommodations, but how different, really, is this from a trip on JetBlue?

The good news is that the dog was on the roof of the car and lived to wag his tail; anyone who’s ever known an Irish Setter understands that this is a breed that more often ends up, flattened, under the car.

My concern about this story is not that it demonstrates how quickly people will turn on a candidate. No, what concerns me is that this story somehow has more traction and is offending more people than footage of federal authorities excavating carcasses of dogs from Michael Vick’s property in Virginia.

One source describes the carnage like this:

“… fights on Vick’s property usually happened late at night or early in the morning, and sometimes involved two or three matches that lasted several hours. The dog fights generally ended when one dog died or surrendered. Sometimes at the end of a fight, the losing dog was drowned, strangled, hanged, shot or electrocuted.”

Injured dogs, emaciated dogs, remains of dogs. All found on Vick’s property. I appreciate PETA’s concern for Seamus, and do not fault the organization for issuing a statement of disapproval; however, I would prefer it if PETA members would more vigorously target Vick and other human debris who exploit and abuse dogs for fun and profit.

If it’s true that authorities also found a rape-stand for breeding on the property, can we expect the feminists out there to register their disgust? If honor killings and the unrestrained contempt for Jeri Thompson doesn’t make their body hair stand on end, then surely they have ample time to speak out on this.

Ladies?

I knew it was going to happen one day and it has. I’ve reached that age. The post-concert age. Every now and then I hear that someone I used to listen to will be in town and I entertain the idea of buying tickets for the show. This generally lasts between seven and nine seconds. It takes me that long, first, to register surprise that “the someone” is still alive, and, then, to remember all the reasons I stopped going to concerts in the first place: the expense, the hassles, the traffic, the annoying people (on and off the stage), and – oh, yeah – the fact that I’m an adult.

I remember my very first concert, standing in that long line outside the Cow Palace, watching Bill Graham, in a boiler suit, walking up and down, analyzing the people who were waiting for the doors to open. I even thought of Bill Graham, bearded and scruffy, in that boiler suit, in the drizzle, when I saw Algore onstage at Live Earth.

Add that to the resume after Oscar Winner: Concert Promoter. If there are Americans who cannot bring themselves to vote for a candidate who travels with a dog on the roof of the family car, then surely no one will hold it against me if I hold this debacle against the former VP.

Actually, knowing it was the President’s birthday, I was prepared to use this space to ask the BIG question: Is George W. Bush our Jimmy Carter? Hell, if you watch MSNBC, the question there is: Is George W. Bush Richard Nixon and is Dick Cheney Satan?

It’s like the little kid who has scraped a knee and has a scab; Mom says not to pick at it, but it’s something that just can’t be left alone. MSNBC is just something I have to keep going back to because it’s… well, because it’s a scab.

When Keith Olbermann announced that he would be asking for the resignations of George Bush and Dick Cheney I had to ask myself certain questions.

1. Is Keith doing this because he sincerely believes that Nancy Pelosi would be a more competent Chief Executive?
2. Is Keith doing this because he’s trying to boost his show’s ratings?
3. Is Keith doing this because it’s a slow news week and he has a lot of time to fill?
4. Is Keith doing this because it’s an opportunity to say, loudly and authoritatively, “dick” on the air?

He really enjoys saying the word – makes a person wonder if the “MS” in MSNBC stands for Middle School. It’s like Chris Matthews and his fondness for saying “Cheeney.” But I’ve noticed that the more MSNBC I watch, the more I notice that Chris forgets himself and correctly pronounces the Vice President’s name. Why, he’s perfectly capable of saying “Chain-ee.” And he’s saying it often. It’s fascinating stuff. Sort of like picking at that scab.

Meanwhile, the President seems unfazed. Serene. I admire that sort of serenity, but admit that some of us might start getting a wee bit resentful about it. Like, it’s nice that the constant ranting doesn’t bother you, Mr. President, but what about the rest of us?

Finally, I decided that if George can dismiss the criticism and go on about his business as if calls for impeachment and declarations of his incompetence were the least of his worries, then the rest of us should be able to do the same. Therefore, I’ve reached the same point of serenity. And what says serene better than baking a cake?

It’s probably because I don’t have kids and I don’t go to many potlucks, but I only recently discovered that there is a recipe out there for something called a “kitty litter” cake. Go online and you’ll find several versions of it, but in every one the common elements are that it is served in a litter box with a scooper, and is decorated — liberally — with softened Tootsie Rolls.

Contemplating serving this at the next event I’m invited to only contributes to this unusual serenity of mine. Would you like me to scoop you up a slab?

I live by certain rules, and one of those rules is this: If it’s a holiday, stay home, close the blinds, and lock the doors. It just isn’t prudent to go out when so many people are celebrating a special day.

We violated our rule and ventured across town to visit friends. It was a bad idea on so many levels. First, there would be fireworks, and it’s never a good idea to leave your pet or your property unsupervised when you have yahoos in your neighborhood playing with incendiary devices. Second, the sky was looking ominous. Third, between ours and our friends’ home was Balloon Fiesta Park, where the city would be celebrating with a Joan Jett concert and fireworks display. Traffic would be impossible returning home.

We got to where we were going, said hello, chatted a bit, then bid all a fond adieu. Better safe than sorry. That’s when the sky opened up and it felt and sounded like rocks were falling on the car. After weeks without a drop of moisture, water covered the road and large hail was falling from above. Perfect. It hadn’t been all that long ago that I’d replaced a cracked windshield – here comes another.

We pulled off the road to seek shelter and found ourselves trapped under an overpass. Apparently others had the same idea but stopped directly under the overpass and parked, blocking all lanes of the roadway. Excuse me, but inclement weather is no excuse to stop obeying the rules of the road. Not that anyone in Nuevo Mexico pays attention to that sort of thing anyway, but it would have been nice to avoid the parking lot.

We managed to make our way through the mess and get back on the road where we saw that the vehicle that had just passed us going the opposite direction was on the wrong side of the road. As annoying as the underpass incident was, we quickly realized that if we hadn’t been delayed we would have been on the road with the wrong way driver and would have likely met him head-on. Rule number seven: Always look on the bright side of life.

Then came the flyovers. We were back home by then, on the patio, when the jets flew over the house. A few minutes later, there was an encore. Niiiiiice. A little later, the explosions started. Neighbors had assembled chairs at the end of our driveway and had begun igniting their $50 value pack from Sam’s Club. (Better than last year when the other neighbors commandeered our entire driveway and front yard.) No problem, I thought. And then I heard the IEDs.

I looked out the window and I was in Iraq. One of the neighbors further down the hill had scored what seemed like a year’s supply of illegal fireworks and was setting them off – as well as every car alarm and dog in the neighborhood.

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“This year is different!,” my neighbor kept saying. “Do you remember anything like this last year – or any year?”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“Can’t say I have.”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“Gee, I’m kinda embarrassed with our cheapo legal fireworks here. How are we expected to top that?”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“Dunno. Maybe next year you can set off a car bomb.”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“Oh, look! I think someone got hit!”

Everyone but me and the quiet Asian gentlemen who lives three doors down ran down the street. We’d never officially met, so I thought I’d approach him.

“Never buy a house on a cul-de-sac.”

The elderly beagles who live behind us in the adjoining neighborhood were howling. The car alarms were going off. And not only was there a light show in front of us, but there were mini-shows on either side and behind the house, too. This didn’t include the citywide show that we could see from the top of our hill. East Side neighborhoods had their own displays, the celebration at the Fiesta Park was in full swing, and the one at Kirtland Air Force Base was on, too. I thought a person had to join the military to see this kind of action. My neighbor’s husband walked up to me.

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“The ones going off behind you are the ones I worry about. Those are the ones that land on the roof and burn up the house.”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

His wife joined him. “Yeah – you’d think with this guy setting off these huge ones the cops would be here.”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“Good point,” I said. “Where are the cops?”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“Actually our friend you just met – you know, with his wife? – he’s a cop.”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“Really.”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“But his thing is meth houses. He should check out your neighbors.”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“Niiiiiice.”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“Ya gotta wonder about next year, huh?”

BANG! WHIZZ! POP! BOOM! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

“I do. Who knows? Maybe some doctors will move into the neighborhood. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

WHIZZZZZZ-ZIP-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

And, to think: All I really wanted was to have a cold beer, watch 1776, and recite — as I always do — the dialogue with the actors.

Franklin: Treason is a charge invented by winners as an excuse for hanging the losers.

Adams: I have more to do than stand here and listen to you quote yourself.

Franklin: Oh, that was a new one!

Mmm… yo, check it! Uh-huh!

Me and my homies from Cell Block Fo’
Gots ta spit rhymes gots ta let it flow
Droppin’ bomb tracks ’bout shiz befo’
From backs in da day - long ago…

Pickin’ ups from 1-7 to da double-6
Curbin’ da Brits fo’ gankin’ us fo’ da licks
We feels dat sh*t… gots ta repeal dat split
Gettin’ jacked up, ’bouts to haves us a fit

Jumpin’ up fo’ mo’ years
1 double-7 0 makes it clear
Five o’ ma dogs jus’ gots waxed
Protesin’ B-Town’s Townshend Acts

Now colonists get out yo’ chairs
Wave yo’ muskets like ya jus’ dont care
An’ if you believe
We jus’ gots ta be free
Then f*ck it an’ declare
In da pen — dance!

Hold it! What? We’s ain’t yet free
S’only 1 77 an’ da’ 3

Reds floatin’ on they yacht
Bogin’ all da’ herb - so my homies thought
Let’s go jack they sh*t
Dunk all dat herb from they ship

In se’nty-fo ma’ dog Ben Franklin
Tired of da Brits and bein’ frank ‘n’
Lef’ ta back ta da’ hood
Said ‘plomacy ain’t no f*ckin’ good

Gotta Minute Men ta get out yo’ chairs
Wave yo’ muskets like ya wants yo’ fairs
An’ if you believe
We jus’ gots ta be free
Then f*ck it an’ declare
In da pen — dance!

Creepin’ up on 17 to da 75
Hard ass times jus’ ta stays alive

Ridin’ shotgun wit’ my dawg Paul Revere,
Peepin’ da ’scape fo’ when theys get near,
Cuz one if by land, two if by sea
Mu’f*ckin’ colonists jus’ gots ta be free!

Awww… nuh-uh! Now’s theys f*ckin’ done it
Times fo’ a war an’ we’s gonna won it
Gats blastin’ shots heard ’round da world
Jus’ ’bout time da flag be unfurled

Gots ta see all dem rockets makin’ glare
All da bizombs bustin’ up in da air
An’ if you believe
We jus’ got ta be free
Then f*ck it an’ declare
In da pen — dance!

Leavin’ 75 an’ goin’ up into 6
Got sumpin’ fo’ Red’s ass up in our bag o’ tricks

Takin’ C-cord, L-Town, and da’ Bunker Hill
‘Rilla tactin’ Blues - Reds jus’ be standin’ still
‘Bout time our pops jus’ sign dat declaration
Givin’ independence an’ our own free nation

Now ‘mericans get out yo’ chairs
Wave yo’ muskets like ya got yo’ prayers
An’ now you believe
We jus’ became free
So, hell yeah, an’ declare
In da pen — dance!

Yo… gettin’ all hiztory up on dis bitch…

– T-Dawg

There was so much going on yesterday, what with all this crappy weather, combustible doctors, Gordon Brown and his new Home Secretary’s cleavage, Brit “Egg Nog” Hume and his observations about Anna Nicole Smith (simply that he thought her body was more interesting when it was alive), and that little fishing expedition off Kennebunkport.

George and Vladimir: A Love Story!

It was a bit strange, George bringing Vlad home to meet the parents and ply him with lobster, and there were more than a few awkward moments. Like that whole exchange with the kissing of cheeks and distribution of bouquets. It felt too much like Prom Night.

But in the middle of a busy news day and speculation that America is going to get hit hard on the Fourth, there was sudden, delightful, and encouraging news about Scooter Libby. I immediately thought of the response of Democrats, Chris Matthews, and Keith Olbermann and said to myself: Wow! This is going to be a fun Independence Day! Let’s break out the brats!

The reason decisions like this are so important is that it reminds people who are thinking twice about which side they’re on re-examine precisely where they stand on specific issues and why they had chosen those sides in the first place. People I like and respect share my opinion about Mr. Libby and are relieved and pleased; people I dislike and disrespect are gnashing their teeth, disappointed that a man’s life hasn’t been destroyed quite enough.

And, to think, there is still ample time for an official pardon. A wise decision and a fine start, Mr. President.

The last few years have been spent dealing with family health issues – mainly my mother’s and our dogs’ – and the health care system. This, and the fact that a survey revealed that in the event of an epidemic (something like bird flu) many health care professionals would refuse to show up to work, I decided that I would seek a new career in the medical field. If there was already a shortage of skilled employees, and the possibility that many individuals would bail at the first sign of a national crisis, imagine the job opportunities!

I spent several weeks last year in local hospitals and determined that, for the most part, they are very much like circuses. A lot is going on, the atmosphere can be chaotic, and it’s real easy to miss something. One day I showed up and discovered that the large TV in the lobby had disappeared. Hospital employees seemed unfazed that someone had simply walked in from the parking lot, removed the television from an area that was not deserted, and left the building. Why? Because, it was explained to me, this had happened many times before.

It appears that I have chosen a bad time to enter a new career because there is a good chance that the country will elect a candidate who will make “universal” health care a reality. I caught a little of Michael Moore on Leno the other night, explaining how his new film was in no way partisan. When he said that doctors in the United Kingdom make a very good living – probably around 200K a year – and that they get a bonus for every patient who demonstrates that he or she has “become healthier” as a result of treatment, the audience applauded enthusiastically. What a wonderful system! Why, the USA should have a system like that!

Ordinarily I would take this time to analyze what it costs for medical training, what the average doctor in the U.S. earns, how much he or she owes in student loans, and how much of his or her salary goes to malpractice insurance. There are definitely differences between the system here and the system there. But the most obvious one at this point in time is that some of their doctors like to build bombs. In fact, some of their doctors like to be bombs.

What’s interesting about America’s response to this story is the shock. Why, how could doctors act this way? (Proof that too many Americans haven’t spent a lot of time around physicians.) We continue to assume things about certain professions – like all doctors, nurses, and teachers are noble and have the best interests of the public in mind. Yes, some do.

Similarly, we assume things about certain groups. That terrorists, for instance, are misguided and desperate people who are operating out of poverty, despair, and illiteracy. Well-educated, successful people, you see, do not fill luxury German-made motorcars with nails and gasoline so that they can destroy buildings and kill people. And they certainly don’t douse themselves with gasoline and crash SUVs into airport terminals.

Guess again. More proof that we haven’t yet fully grasped the concept of this war and the type of enemy we face. I met a few Muslim doctors and nurses in our hospitals last year. Unfortunately, what has happened over there is going to affect them over here.