The Voice of Treason

“Thank you all for letting me come by. I want to open today’s speech with a story that begins on a sunny morning, when thousands of Americans were murdered in a surprise attack — and our nation was propelled into a conflict that would take us to every corner of the globe.

The enemy who attacked us despises freedom, and harbors resentment at the slights he believes America and Western nations have inflicted on his people. He fights to establish his rule over an entire region. And over time, he turns to a strategy of suicide attacks destined to create so much carnage that the American people will tire of the violence and give up the fight.

If this story sounds familiar, it is — except for one thing. The enemy I have just described is not al Qaeda, and the attack is not 9/11, and the empire is not the radical caliphate envisioned by Osama bin Laden. Instead, what I’ve described is the war machine of Imperial Japan in the 1940s, its surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, and its attempt to impose its empire throughout East Asia.”

– President George W. Bush, addressing The Veterans of Foreign Wars National Convention

Ah, history. I caught the speech this morning — or, should I say, it caught me. When I watched Bush in Canada earlier this week I noticed a difference: he seemed to be communicating with more vigor, humor, and eloquence than he has in recent months. Why, I almost felt myself shouting, “That’s my Bush!” He has these moments of clarity that remind me of all the reasons (besides Gore and Kerry) that I voted for him… twice.

This speech was one of those moments. He caught my attention early and I stayed with him until the end. I’ve admitted that lately I tend to wander off during some of these speeches, but today he came out strong and kept my interest. There were some well-crafted bits, expertly delivered.

Say, is there a new speechwriter in the House?

At any rate, the VFW was in the news this week because so many candidates were in Kansas City falling over one another specifically to address this group. It was even reported that Barack Obama was received better and had more applause lines than Fred Thompson.

I think with this speech, Bush had both of them beat.

No one appreciates a good conspiracy theory more than I. In fact, I’ll admit right here that I believe in that whole New Coke Order thing. Once Coca-Cola introduced New Coke, the formula for Classic Coke was altered and what they’re calling Classic Coke today is not the Coke I drank as a kid. Conspiracy theory? Maybe. Maybe not.

Doesn’t matter how absurd the theory is, I’m open to entertaining it. In the middle of the night I’d tune into KGO and listen to Ray Taliaferro and his callers so I could stay abreast of all the schemes put in place by the Reagan/Bush regime. Crack? That was Reagan/Bush. AIDS? Reagan/Bush again. Illegitimacy rates in the African-American community? Ronnie and George were personally knocking up crack-addicted fourteen year-olds in Red Hook.

Bwwwwwwwaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh! Ronald Reagan, the Evil Mastermind! Um, would this be the same Ronald Reagan — B-movie actor, half-wit, senile old man who nodded off during Cabinet meetings – who couldn’t pop a Jelly Belly without Nancy’s permission?

The problem with conspiracy theories is that they lack a necessary degree of consistency. I generally dismissed the Left’s attacks on Reagan, not only because I liked the man, but because I just couldn’t see how one minute he was so diabolical and the next such a doddering old fool. With George W. Bush it’s déjà vu all over again.

Bush is dumb as a stump, can’t even put a sentence together, a drooling moron – yet he has masterminded a plan for world domination. He engineered the attacks of September 2001, pulled the wool over the eyes of all those clever Democrats, and instigated a World War. Oh, yeah – and he hates black people.

This always reminds me of those descriptions of Adolf Hitler as “just an Austrian housepainter.” Something just doesn’t add up. Why is it that the Left is quick to describe anyone on the Right as a bumpkin, yet anyone they approve of is suddenly a supergenius? Bill and Hillary Clinton: The World’s Most Brilliant Human Beings. Why, Bill Clinton has read more books than any other person on the planet! (Pat Schroeder insists it’s true. According to her, conservatives don’t read much. Silly Patsy, tell that to the Editors at National Review.)

Snarkiness aside, are we really supposed to believe that George W. Bush is conspiring with Stephen Harper and Felipe Calderón to create a North American Union? The twist on this plot, however, is that it’s the (Far) Right who believes in it.

Holy Criminenelli. We can’t even get a f*cking fence built; how are we supposed to build a superhighway between now and January 2009?

“In many cases, a bout with sickness stretches your soul, opens your eyes, and introduces you to a world of unimagined grandeur, possibility and joy.”

– Tony Snow

My mother chose to wait tables to support us because it was something she was good at and she knew that she could make “good” money. And, depending on which restaurant and which shift she worked, she did. In the mid-Sixties we lived in a spacious Chicago apartment, one block from Lake Michigan, on Sheridan Road in Rogers Park. Her regular customers would wait until they could be seated in her station, and there were nights that she would make between sixty and one hundred dollars in tips. Her legs, always shapely in her support hose, actually looked like Cleveland street maps. Pregnancies aggravated her varicose veins, but waiting tables and being on her feet most of her life may have been the root cause. Her dream was to dance on Broadway, but that wasn’t practical. After her Italian father told her that only a whore would work on The Great White Way, she explored other options.

Before she went into the restaurant business, she spent some time at a job she really loved. For some reason I think it had something to do with packing up medical supplies, pharmaceuticals. She adored her boss, the kindest man in the world, and she loved that he kept the employees supplied with coffee and doughnuts. As I’ve said before, coffee is heroin to my mother – it’s probably why she was drawn to working in restaurants. Always had access to the stuff.

But as much as she loved the job, the people she worked with, her saint of a boss, and the steady supply of coffee and doughnuts, she wasn’t making enough money to support herself. She often depended on those doughnuts for her meals. She wanted to stay and her boss loved her, but there just wasn’t enough money to keep her. So she had to leave and go to a job that was more practical. A job that paid more.

Have you ever found yourself doing a job that was so totally impractical? You tell yourself that it makes no sense to go there and accept the ridiculous pay, yet you just love the place. It is the perfect job – or at least it would be if only it paid more.

I’d mentioned that I’d seen Tony Snow on Q & A with Brian Lamb and he’d hinted that, even though he loved his job, the pay sucked. On the surface, $168,000 seems comfy enough, but when you figure that he has a family to support and lives in an expensive part of the country – and, let’s face it, he needs to squirrel some money away in the event that he can no longer provide for his family – his really is an insufficient salary. Yet he gave up financial security to do a job he feels is worthwhile and to work with people he likes and respects.

Jobs like that are hard to come by, but one has to be practical. If Snow is leaving his job for this reason, it’s perfectly understandable. He has to consider his family. But if he’s leaving because of his health… well, I hope that isn’t the reason.

He told Brian Lamb that he wouldn’t return to broadcasting, but admitted that his true love is writing. It’s something he’s always enjoyed and it’s something he does well. My hope, sensing that this is really the perfect job for Tony Snow, is that he spends the next thirty, forty years doing just that.

“The death of Brooke Astor brought much commentary from men and women who had observed her and marveled at her way of doing things. Her life was too long by a few years (she was 105), an affliction that will come to more and more people, courtesy of modern medicine. What she was left to cope with wasn’t any shortage of friends or of money. But she was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease and could no longer revel in her own wit, which had been considerable.”

– William F. Buckley Jr., NRO

I’m with Bill on this: Lady Astor’s life was too long. One hundred plus five years is more generosity than most humans receive from their Creator; however, sometimes when we are offered divine gifts we should decline them.

Perhaps it’s because I’m witnessing my mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s or because I have been forced to play God and choose the “right” time to end the lives of beloved pets. I don’t endorse human euthanasia, and that’s only because I’m convinced that the option would be exercised with abandon.

“Aunt Tillie has become a bit of an inconvenience. Actually, she’s a royal pain in the ass. It’s time to just put her down.”

A vital person like Brooke Astor who, as Buckley points out, loses an important part of herself – her wit – might be better off moving to the next level. My mother is deaf as a door, thin as a stick, and doesn’t know which end is up, but she can still see and is capable of recognizing me. Our relationship confuses her. Sometimes she thinks I’m her sister, sometimes she thinks I’m her mother – and sometimes I think I am, too – but most of the time she knows I’m her youngest daughter.

My older sister came in from out of town and visited today and my mother instantly knew her. A good sign. And she hasn’t yet lost her sense of humor. With dogs, I judge by appetite: As long as the animal is eating, there is desire for life. When the dog recoils from its favorite treat, it is time to call the vet.

Most humans can withstand terrible pain and inconvenience and still maintain the will to live. But once your sense of humor is taken from you, is the will to go on that far behind?

“… Just two days after Barry Bonds sets a synthetic home run record in San Francisco, the Natural returns to St. Louis.

Right after that first game, La Russa called Ankiel’s return the Cardinals’ greatest joy in baseball ‘short of winning the World Series.’ This, from a manager (as chronicled in George Will’s classic Men at Work) not given to happy talk. La Russa is the ultimate baseball logician, driven by numbers and stats. He may be more machine than man, but he confessed at the postgame news conference: ‘I’m fighting my butt off to keep it together.’

Translation: I’m trying like hell to keep from bursting into tears at the resurrection of a young man who seven years ago dissolved in front of my eyes. La Russa was required to ‘keep it together’ because, as codified most succinctly by Tom Hanks (in A League of Their Own), ‘There’s no crying in baseball.’

But there can be redemption. And a touch of glory.”

– Charles Krauthammer, NRO

David Beckham has been paid handsomely to relocate and inject enthusiasm into a sport that should never become our national pastime. Tim Donaghy, now a former NBA referee, was and is a cheat, and may very well name the names of other NBA refs who are guilty of the same deception. Michael Vick is simply a soulless thug.

This is not to say that baseball isn’t corrupt, sullied. But Krauthammer’s flawless description of Rick Ankiel’s return to the St. Louis Cardinals reminded me why I still – despite my occasional disgust with certain players and team (mis)management – find myself looking forward, each year, to spring and to fall.

A thirty-five year-old Canadian woman just gave birth. Slightly crazy and pushing it just a little, but to be fair, my mother was, I believe, thirty-six when she had me. The Canadian delivered not one baby, but four. Specifically, four identical quadruplets, all girls, named Autumn, Brooke, Calissa and Dahlia. An event like this, we are told, is extremely rare. Identical quadruplets! The chances of giving birth to identical quadruplets is about one in 13 million, doctors say. Imagine: They were born two months early, weigh just over two pounds each, and were conceived without fertility drugs. Rare indeed!

But what isn’t so rare is that Mr. and Mrs. Jepp of Calgary, Alberta (that would be north of here in Canada) drove 325 miles to Great Falls, Montana (that, too, would be north of most of us, but still within the contiguous United States) to deliver the quads because hospitals in Calgary were at capacity.

Socialized medicine, we’re told, is just swell and we should adopt a similar system. And drive where, exactly, when we require medical attention?

Crazy ideas seem to catch on quickly in America. Who would have thought a Hula Hoop would have been such a popular item? Who would have dreamed a plastic disc called “Frisbee” would have taken off? Footsies were popular when I was a kid: I wanted one, got one, and soon realized it was about as much fun as my Slinky.

We are capitalists, consumers. I have no issue with some entrepreneurial spirit bringing an idea to market and realizing success. Play-Doh. Silly Putty. Etch A Sketch. Trolls. Superballs. Spirograph. Lite-Brite. Easy-Bake Oven. Easy-Show Projector. View-Master. Twister. Mr. Potato Head. Cootie. Ah… and that “Time Machine” toy that heated up and when you inserted a plastic cube and pressed it, a strange chemical smell would fill the air then mix with the scent of burning flesh, and a small dinosaur would emerge. Pet Rocks. Nerf Balls. Rubik’s Cubes. Cabbage Patch Kids. Teddy Ruxpin. Pound Puppies. Furbys. Some products influence the culture in a positive way; others do not. I say, let the market decide.

But when political ideas catch fire, bad things can happen. We consume products and when they don’t work, we lose interest. But ideas that don’t work are, for some reason, much harder for us to discard. Even when there’s proof the idea won’t work.

The latest of these ideas has arisen from the Michael Vick case. It starts thusly: A person might call up a talk radio host to defend Vick and point out a bit of hypocrisy, and next thing you know, people are running with this idea – much like a kid will run with a lollipop in his mouth, or worse, with scissors in his hand. The result is usually not good.

So from this horrid dog fighting story is the latest of such odd, soon to catch fire proposals: Let’s send all the dogs and cats that we have in animal shelters that are going to be euthanized anyway to the North Koreans, who are starving, as food products.

Uh… no… let’s not.

Let’s be frank, shall we? Does anyone out there know who John “Son of A Single Mother” Cox is? Perfectly attractive candidate, solid resume, “free market/anti-IRS/school competition” kinda guy. And from Chicago, too. I like him, but is he the one? Right now he’s the Mystery (Candi)Date, the stealth candidate: he’s out there, but no one knows it. John? Give it up.

The other John. John McCain. Why do I still find myself feeling sorry for John McCain? He has a great life, a stunning wife, a good job, a new home, and a lot of pets who adore him. Even the average media person has good things to say about him. He doesn’t need to be president. Frankly – and I hate to say it… again – he’s missed the boat. Timing is everything in life, and this is not the time. He needs to let go of all that pent-up crap, kiss his beautiful wife, write a few more books, hug all those dogs of his, and say:

“Honey! It’s time to start thinking about our golden years. What would you like to do?”

For all I know, Cindy’s happiest when he’s out of the house – who knows? But as vital as he still may be, and as much as he has left to contribute, his place is not in the Oval Office. John? Give it up.

Sam Brownback. Has he learned nothing from Dorothy Gale? Sam, listen to me: There’s no place like home. You just think the grass is greener on the South Lawn, but you’re wrong. No one wants you to end up in Oz, then realize that you really want to be back in Topeka. If I lived in Kansas I would vote for you if you were running for the Senate. I don’t care where I live: If you’re running for the top job, you don’t have my vote. So Sam… give it up.

Ron “Would You Let This Man Deliver Your Baby?” Paul. The thought of Ron Paul between my legs gives me the heebie-jeebies. And I mean that in the OB-GYN sense. I do like the whole Libertarian thing going on there, but everything that’s wrong with Libertarianism is wrong with Ron Paul. Do I want to see a more Libertarian Republican Party? Actually, yes. Do I think Ron Paul is the person who can change the direction of the Party? Uh… not really. Like Brownback, he’s effective where he is and could be even more effective someplace else. But that place isn’t the Oval Office. Dr. Paul… give it up.

Newt. I’m starting to suspect that Newt’s having second thoughts and he’ll only enter the race if every other candidate gets blown up in a terrorist attack. He’s smart enough to do the job and he’s smart enough to see how the public is going about choosing a candidate. That should be enough – if he’s so damned smart – to make him walk away from this now. He knows politics. He knows history. He should know better. Newt? Give it up.

Tom Tancredo, the other Italian candidate. I know he reminds most people of Henry Gibson, but there’s something likeable there. In fact, I like the guy more and more all the time and I feel he has real potential. There’s definitely a job for him, but it’s not the one he’s interviewing for. I like you, Tom, but maybe you should give it up.

Fred Thompson. Who doesn’t love Fred Thompson? Either his approach to this run has been one big fat stroke of genius, or he’s getting dangerously close to being yesterday’s news. Once he’s made it clear that he’s running and he’s kissing babies, eating corn dogs, grilling pork chops and handing them to people on burnt sticks, and promising us all the things he can’t possibly deliver, it’ll be just like one of those big master baths in the average American home. Looks great and glamorous in the model, but once you have soap scum on the fixtures and you’re standing next to your spouse and watching each other pluck, floss, and spit, the magic is gone. The question is: Can he keep the mystique? If not… well, Fred, maybe you just better give it up.

Duncan Hunter. Salt of the earth. Solid as a rock. Boring as dirt. I don’t think so, but I’m in the minority here. Competent? Sure. Capable? Sure. But so was Tommy Thompson. Where’s the magic? Newt’s right – it’s American Idol and talent is often less important than the package. There’s no flash – except for what might be in the pan. VP? Possible. President? Again, if every other candidate gets blown up in a terrorist attack – and he wins the arm-wrestling match with Newt – then maybe. Or… it might be better to just give it up.

Mitt. Liked his dad. And with Mitt, there’s a lot to like, too. So why is he just missing? It’s an example of “close, but no cigar.” And now when I think of cigars I think of Bill Clinton. Which makes me think of the anti-Clinton – Mike Huckabee. But now he’s even better at smooth talking than Mitt, which makes me wonder if he really is the anti-Clinton.

I don’t think either candidate is ready to give it up, so that leaves Rudy. Here it’s what you see is what you get. And if it’s between Rudy and Fred… what Giuliani and Fred Thompson have in common right now is battered wives. No, I’m not saying Rudy and Fred are wife beaters; what I’m saying is that their wives are being beaten up relentlessly in the press. No man should tolerate that sh*t. Not for a second. What I’m watching now is how these two candidates handle the crap that’s being thrown at the loves of their lives.

I’m at the point now that the first of the two candidates who snaps and throttles a reporter has my vote.

Runners:

1. Duncan Hunter

2. John McCain

3. Rudy Giuliani

4. Mitt Romney

5. Sam Brownback

6. Tom Tancredo

7. Mike Huckabee

8. Ron Paul

9. John Cox

Joggers:

10. Fred Thompson

11. Newt Gingrich

Jumpers:

1. Bill Frist

2. Frank Keating

3. Jim Gilmore

4. Tommy Thompson

Perhaps it’s an astrological thing, but there seems to be something in the air. Upheaval. Change. Cal Ripken just accepted a new job that doesn’t pay very much – actually it doesn’t pay anything. His travel expenses are covered but I don’t know if he gets any sort of food allowance. It appears that this won’t be much of an issue for Mr. Ripken, so that’s a good thing.

Tommy Thompson, too, is on the move. He’s one of those rare individuals who can keep his word; he said he would drop out of the presidential race if Iowa Straw Poll results were disappointing. They were… and he did.

Karl Rove is making a change, as well, and says it’s the right time to leave Washington and spend some quality time with the family. Critics are skeptical. Is he ill? Afraid of investigation? On the run? Working for another candidate? Why would he want to be with his family? What on earth would make him want to leave Washington?

Similarly, to celebrate the birthday of El Comandante, twenty-five Cubans took to the water and made their way to the Florida Keys, leaving Utopia and a fabulous healthcare system behind. When the U.S. Coast Guard arrived the newcomers were questioned.

“What made you risk your lives to leave everything behind in the beautiful fatherland, the workers’ paradise, and come here to Imperialist America?”

A spokesman for the group explained the reason for their decision:

“It is the birthday of our revered leader and there will be fireworks and celebrations in the streets of Havana. Our people will honor our great captain and there will be tributes; children will sing, bakers will offer very large cakes to the people so that all may know the importance of this special day. Schoolchildren will cut beards out of banana leaves and wave them over their heads.”

“They wave them? They don’t wear them?”

“No, the children wave the beards. It is hot on the island and children running and waving banana leaves is very much appreciated. Also, the leaves are affective in keeping the mosquitoes away.”

“But why would you choose to leave your home today and miss the festivities?”

“El Comandante is eighty-one today. We have been eating cake, singing, and waving banana leaves for as long as I can remember. I am forty-seven years old. I don’t even like cake, and my voice is not that good. Yet every year we celebrate.

My friends and I believe that there comes a time in a man’s life… a time to make decisions that will define your life, define the lives of the people around you. There comes a time when a man should not expect others to bake cakes, sing, and wave banana leaves on his birthday. That time is when you turn eleven. We want to live in a place where we can choose to celebrate the birth of a nation, not be forced to celebrate the birth of a vile, sick old man.”

Congratulations to all who are making major life decisions! Godspeed.