It was getting late—after nine o’clock—and everyone should have headed home for supper long ago, but a few staffers were still in the conference room, brainstorming, trying to find an issue that could revive the Democratic Party. They were all still reeling from losing yet again to George W. Bush and falling even farther from power in Congress.
“Come on, guys,” said Dave. “There’s gotta be an issue that really connects with ordinary people, that energizes them, that offers them a real choice and lets ‘em know the Democratic Party cares about them, listens to them, and is tuned in to their concerns.”
“Oh, you put it so well,” said Barb. “That is just so true.”
“National security has always been a Republican strong point,” Danny threw out, “but now that it’s been proven Iraq didn’t have any weapons of mass destruction, and Saddam Hussein had nothing to do with September 11, the whole Bush administration has been discredited on that issue. I think there’s a real opportunity there for us.”
“Danny,” said Ted, a balding consultant to many a losing campaign, “you can’t win on national security in war time, even if the President started the war for some reason that nobody can explain and we’re getting our butts kicked by an army that doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, excuse me,” said the cleaning lady, “I didn’t know anybody was still in here.”
“That’s okay, Juanita, just go ahead and clean around us,” said Kevin. “It won’t bother us. Who’s that you’ve got there with you?”
“Oh, this’s my littlest one, Marcus. He got sick, and my sister’s car broke down so she couldn’t watch him, and I had to bring him along. But don’t worry none. He’ll just sit out front and color. He won’t bother nobody.”
“Shouldn’t he be home in bed if he’s sick?” asked Kevin.
“Ain’t nobody at home old enough to watch him,” said Juanita, “and if I stay home, I don’t get paid. If I don’t get paid, the rent don’t get paid, and we’re out on the street.”
“Oh yeah,” said Kevin. “Well, hey, there are some colored markers in my desk drawer if you want to use them.”
“He doesn’t look too lively,” observed Barb. “Maybe you should take him to the doctor.”
“Huh!” said Juanita. “Who can afford health insurance when they’re makin’ $5.15 an hour?”
Danny threw out another idea. “What about energy policy? Bush and Cheney let the energy companies write energy policy, and oil company profits have shot up like a gusher.”
“All I know,” muttered Juanita, “is when gas is $2.50 a gallon, and I make $5.15 an hour, I’m already out an hour’s pay every time I drive to work. Seems like gas prices go up every time you turn around, but minimum wage ain’t changed a penny in years.”
“You know what you ought to do?” said Barb. “You ought to buy one of those new hybrids. I get 53 miles to a gallon with mine.”
“I’m getting’ hungry,” moaned Kevin. “Why don’t we order some subs and drinks?”
“Sounds good,” said Dave. “You want us to order for you too, Juanita?”
“Nah, I packed up baloney sandwiches for me and Marcus. Subs and drinks would set me back two more hours’ pay at $5.15 an hour.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Kevin. “Hey, I’ll spring for subs for you and Marcus. My treat!”
“No thanks,” said Juanita. “We’ve already got our supper packed. No sense wastin’ it.”
“How about housing?” asked Danny, still digging. “Owning your own home is part of the American dream.”
“No good,” said Ted. “As low as mortgage rates have been, all kinds of people have jumped into the housing market.”
“How’s anybody makin’ $5.15 an hour gonna get money together for a down payment or get approved for a mortgage, when even some shabby houses be costin’ more than $200,000?” asked Juanita. “Housing prices doublin’ and triplin’ even, but minimum wage ain’t gone up in years.”
“I think you’re right, Ted,” said Barb. “My parents just bought a vacation home right on the beach in Oregon, had it for less than a month, and turned around and sold it for $100,000 more than they paid for it. Everybody’s getting rich in this market.”
“Folks,” said Dave, “why don’t we eat and call it a night. It doesn’t look as if we’re going to come up with anything this evening that would connect the Democratic Party with its roots. For some reason, the poor and the working class don’t even turn out to vote anymore. If we could just think of some issue they cared about….”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
“Tabling the Debate”
Maybe you’re like me, and find yourself confused after watching political talk shows on TV. In the kind of balanced, civilized debate you’d expect in an advanced democratic society, carefully-selected department store mannequins representing the liberal perspective square off against badly-disguised attack dogs representing the conservative point of view. (“Karl Rove” is actually a Rottweiler; the name is a corrupted version of the command “Kill, Rover.”) While you’re waiting for the debate to be interrupted by beer commercials full of beautiful girls who love playing in the mud and drinking light beers—wait a minute, that’s Sunday afternoons—these debaters keep interrupting each other right in the middle of their top-of-the-lungs, ten-minute-long abusive rants. How rude can you get?
The result is that, after doing my public duty to understand these issues of grave national importance, I now understand how people can actually read People magazine instead or switch channels and watch a bowling match. What I don’t understand is whatever topic these guys were using to practice their Public Yelling. You just have to figure it out yourself, if the media won’t help. Thank God for the Internet, which has enabled me to research ancient history, almost back before the memory of humankind—say five or six years ago—without the physical stress of turning the pages of a book.
So let’s begin with an easy topic, Gulf War II—originally given the snappy name Operation Iraqi Liberation (OIL), but later changed to Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF. OIF?) —and review the opposing positions taken by liberals and conservatives:
Liberal Position
1a. There’s no good evidence that Saddam Hussein had anything to do with Sept. 11. Conservative Position
Saddam Hussein plotted with al Qaeda to launch the Sept. 11 attacks, and we can prove it.
Outcome
Mr. Bush eventually concedes that Saddam Hussein had no connection to the Sept. 11 attacks.
Liberal Position
1b. I told you so.
Conservative Position
Saddam Hussein was a bad man.
Outcome
Liberals right, conservatives wrong; conservatives win.
Liberal Position
2a. There’s no good evidence that Saddam Hussein has weapons of mass destruction (WMD).
Conservative Position
We have evidence of specific WMD, including amounts and the sites where they’re produced and stored.
Outcome
After exhaustive search, no WMD found.
Liberal Position
2b. I told you so.
Conservative Position
Did we mention that we want Iraq to become a model Middle East democracy?
Outcome
Liberals right, conservatives wrong; conservatives win.
Liberal Position
3a. There’s no good evidence that Iraq was trying to buy uranium from Niger.
Conservative Position
Iraq was buying uranium ore from Niger and aluminum rods to be used in nuclear centrifuges.
Outcome
Uranium ore story discredited; rods turn out to be parts for conventional rockets.
Liberal Position
3b. I told you so.
Conservative Position
Joseph Wilson’s wife is an undercover CIA agent.
Outcome
That’ll teach you to contradict me in public!
Liberal Position
4a. Lots of people will get killed.
Conservative Position
No sweat.
Outcome
President lands on aircraft carrier in front of “Mission Accomplished!” sign, declares active hostilities at an end.
Liberal Position
4b. 1,800 US soldiers, 25,000 to 100,000 Iraqis killed; death toll still climbing.
Conservative Position
No pictures of corpses allowed; Iraqi dead don’t count.
Outcome
Administration says, “We didn’t put that sign up.”
Liberal Position
5a. The war will be really expensive.
Conservative Position
We’ll sell Iraqi oil; the war will almost pay for itself.
Outcome
Surprise! War costs $208 billion so far, with no end in sight.
Liberal Position
5b. This war is really expensive!
Conservative Position
If you don’t sign this blank check, you’re unpatriotic.
Outcome
Liberals right, conservatives wrong; conservatives win.
Liberal Position
6a. You need a plan for the aftermath.
Conservative Position
Let’s just get this war started, and quit standing around.
Outcome
Chaos. Offices, factories, museums, libraries, schools, archaeological sites looted and destroyed. Arms depots are left unguarded and looted.
Liberal Position
6b. I told you so.
Conservative Position
If you criticize the war effort, you’re unpatriotic.
Outcome
Liberals right, conservatives wrong; conservatives win.
Liberal Position
7. The war is illegal because it violates both international law and the UN Charter.
Conservative Position
Who cares? The President can do whatever he wants in the name of national security.
Outcome
President does whatever he wants, and says it’s because of national security.
Liberal Position
8a. Intelligence is being manipulated to justify an invasion.
Conservative Position
Intelligence is sound, situation critical. “Bush bashers” hate the President, would vote for Saddam Hussein instead, given a chance.
Outcome
How did we go wrong? Intelligence was “seriously flawed.” (See nos. 1-6 above). Big-name panels created to find problem, but administration specifically excludes political pressure as factor to be investigated.
Liberal Position
8b. Downing Street memos, printed in London Times, prove intelligence was being manipulated to justify an invasion.
Conservative Position
What memos?
Outcome
Corporate media in US unite to bury huge story for month and a half.
Liberals right, conservatives wrong; conservatives win…. Wait!
Liberal Position
8c. Downing Street memos finally surface in mainstream media, show intelligence was being “fixed around” justifying an invasion.
Conservative Position
Downing Street memos are “vague” and “old news.”
Outcome
Public can’t find Downing Street, falls asleep waiting for commercials with beautiful girls who like playing in the mud and drinking light beers. Conservatives turn out to like playing in the mud too.
The result is that, after doing my public duty to understand these issues of grave national importance, I now understand how people can actually read People magazine instead or switch channels and watch a bowling match. What I don’t understand is whatever topic these guys were using to practice their Public Yelling. You just have to figure it out yourself, if the media won’t help. Thank God for the Internet, which has enabled me to research ancient history, almost back before the memory of humankind—say five or six years ago—without the physical stress of turning the pages of a book.
So let’s begin with an easy topic, Gulf War II—originally given the snappy name Operation Iraqi Liberation (OIL), but later changed to Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF. OIF?) —and review the opposing positions taken by liberals and conservatives:
Liberal Position
1a. There’s no good evidence that Saddam Hussein had anything to do with Sept. 11. Conservative Position
Saddam Hussein plotted with al Qaeda to launch the Sept. 11 attacks, and we can prove it.
Outcome
Mr. Bush eventually concedes that Saddam Hussein had no connection to the Sept. 11 attacks.
Liberal Position
1b. I told you so.
Conservative Position
Saddam Hussein was a bad man.
Outcome
Liberals right, conservatives wrong; conservatives win.
Liberal Position
2a. There’s no good evidence that Saddam Hussein has weapons of mass destruction (WMD).
Conservative Position
We have evidence of specific WMD, including amounts and the sites where they’re produced and stored.
Outcome
After exhaustive search, no WMD found.
Liberal Position
2b. I told you so.
Conservative Position
Did we mention that we want Iraq to become a model Middle East democracy?
Outcome
Liberals right, conservatives wrong; conservatives win.
Liberal Position
3a. There’s no good evidence that Iraq was trying to buy uranium from Niger.
Conservative Position
Iraq was buying uranium ore from Niger and aluminum rods to be used in nuclear centrifuges.
Outcome
Uranium ore story discredited; rods turn out to be parts for conventional rockets.
Liberal Position
3b. I told you so.
Conservative Position
Joseph Wilson’s wife is an undercover CIA agent.
Outcome
That’ll teach you to contradict me in public!
Liberal Position
4a. Lots of people will get killed.
Conservative Position
No sweat.
Outcome
President lands on aircraft carrier in front of “Mission Accomplished!” sign, declares active hostilities at an end.
Liberal Position
4b. 1,800 US soldiers, 25,000 to 100,000 Iraqis killed; death toll still climbing.
Conservative Position
No pictures of corpses allowed; Iraqi dead don’t count.
Outcome
Administration says, “We didn’t put that sign up.”
Liberal Position
5a. The war will be really expensive.
Conservative Position
We’ll sell Iraqi oil; the war will almost pay for itself.
Outcome
Surprise! War costs $208 billion so far, with no end in sight.
Liberal Position
5b. This war is really expensive!
Conservative Position
If you don’t sign this blank check, you’re unpatriotic.
Outcome
Liberals right, conservatives wrong; conservatives win.
Liberal Position
6a. You need a plan for the aftermath.
Conservative Position
Let’s just get this war started, and quit standing around.
Outcome
Chaos. Offices, factories, museums, libraries, schools, archaeological sites looted and destroyed. Arms depots are left unguarded and looted.
Liberal Position
6b. I told you so.
Conservative Position
If you criticize the war effort, you’re unpatriotic.
Outcome
Liberals right, conservatives wrong; conservatives win.
Liberal Position
7. The war is illegal because it violates both international law and the UN Charter.
Conservative Position
Who cares? The President can do whatever he wants in the name of national security.
Outcome
President does whatever he wants, and says it’s because of national security.
Liberal Position
8a. Intelligence is being manipulated to justify an invasion.
Conservative Position
Intelligence is sound, situation critical. “Bush bashers” hate the President, would vote for Saddam Hussein instead, given a chance.
Outcome
How did we go wrong? Intelligence was “seriously flawed.” (See nos. 1-6 above). Big-name panels created to find problem, but administration specifically excludes political pressure as factor to be investigated.
Liberal Position
8b. Downing Street memos, printed in London Times, prove intelligence was being manipulated to justify an invasion.
Conservative Position
What memos?
Outcome
Corporate media in US unite to bury huge story for month and a half.
Liberals right, conservatives wrong; conservatives win…. Wait!
Liberal Position
8c. Downing Street memos finally surface in mainstream media, show intelligence was being “fixed around” justifying an invasion.
Conservative Position
Downing Street memos are “vague” and “old news.”
Outcome
Public can’t find Downing Street, falls asleep waiting for commercials with beautiful girls who like playing in the mud and drinking light beers. Conservatives turn out to like playing in the mud too.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
“Remembering the Good Old Days”
Everybody was in for the reunion, and a bunch of us were at the local watering hole, wetting our throats for the Alumni Sing that evening. The crew at the next table were older guys, in their sixties maybe. They were pretty boisterous, and the more the beer went down, the more their volume rose. They were reliving the glory years of their youth at the top of their voices, and their conversation eventually dropped from sports to politics.
“Remember when it was the commies who would invade countries on some phony excuse, the way we did Iraq and Panama, and we’d just go ballistic?” asked one guy nostalgically, a big beefy fellow wearing a huge straw hat.
Everyone at the table fell silent as they reminisced about that for a minute, and then the bald guy to his right chimed in. “Remember when the Soviets would go to the U.N. and tell these transparent lies, and the rest of the world would just sit there, arms folded, waiting for the lies to end? And the Soviets didn’t care! Those were the good old days. When I was watching Colin Powell’s speech making the case for war against Iraq, and saw those delegates watching him, arms folded, it all came back to me.”
“I thought Powell had a lot more class. At least he didn’t take his shoe off and pound it on the podium,” said the big guy. Everybody laughed.
The skinny little guy sitting across the table from him piped up. “Remember when magazines like the Reader’s Digest were always carrying stories about how people were being picked up by the Soviet police and held with no charges being filed and no lawyer and no contact with their family? We always said, ‘That’s the way they do things in a police state, not in America, God bless her.’ And, hey, now we’ve got guys who’ve been in Guantanamo for two and a half years, and they have still never been charged with anything or allowed contact with their families.”
The big guy nodded his head. “And remember when the commies were the ones who were torturing people in their prisons, or kidnapping people off the streets in other countries? Now the U.S. has secret prisons around the globe, prisoners being tortured to death, and CIA agents being indicted in Italy for kidnapping, with cell phone records and everything.”
The bald guy said, “Sure, I remember that. And do you remember how we used to hear about the Roosky secret police invading people’s private lives? And we’d say, that’s the way it is in a totalitarian society. Now somehow we have this so-called Patriot Act, and the FBI is reading your e-mail and checking to see what library books you’ve been reading!”
The fourth guy, who’d been silent up till then, said, “Remember when we used to laugh at the way the Soviet newspapers and the other media just took whatever handout the Kremlin gave them, and that was their news? And we thought it was a hoot when some big news items got blacked out completely, the way the Downing Street memos were this spring?”
The skinny guy came back with, “Remember how there were always those stories of massive corruption, with the big guys in the Kremlin tied in to companies supplying the Red Army, and the big guys got rich while the poor suckers in the army got lousy food, low pay, and equipment shortages?”
“Yeah, I thought of that when I read about Cheney and Halliburton and all those no-bid contracts they were awarded,” said the big beefy guy, shaking his head.
“Remember the blatant hypocrisy, when the Russians would take over some country and claim they had ‘liberated’ it, and then install a puppet government in the name of a ‘people’s democracy’?”
“Oh sure,” said the fourth guy. “If you followed what we’ve done in Iraq and Afghanistan, you couldn’t help but think about it.”
“Speaking of Afghanistan,” said the skinny guy, “do you remember how the Soviets thought they had that place whipped? They installed a puppet government just like we have. I can’t remember how long it took—ten years or so—but the Taliban finally bled ‘em dry and ran the commies out of there. With our help! We trained the guys we’re fighting now. Wonder how long it will take ‘em to boot us out of their country?”
I’d had about all I could take. I sidled up to the bar, and in a low tone asked Eddie, “Who are those guys? A bunch of leftover radicals from some old SDS chapter in the sixties?”
Eddie glanced at the table and gave a snort. “Those guys in SDS? No way. They’re just a bunch of Republicans with loose tongues and long memories.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Remember when it was the commies who would invade countries on some phony excuse, the way we did Iraq and Panama, and we’d just go ballistic?” asked one guy nostalgically, a big beefy fellow wearing a huge straw hat.
Everyone at the table fell silent as they reminisced about that for a minute, and then the bald guy to his right chimed in. “Remember when the Soviets would go to the U.N. and tell these transparent lies, and the rest of the world would just sit there, arms folded, waiting for the lies to end? And the Soviets didn’t care! Those were the good old days. When I was watching Colin Powell’s speech making the case for war against Iraq, and saw those delegates watching him, arms folded, it all came back to me.”
“I thought Powell had a lot more class. At least he didn’t take his shoe off and pound it on the podium,” said the big guy. Everybody laughed.
The skinny little guy sitting across the table from him piped up. “Remember when magazines like the Reader’s Digest were always carrying stories about how people were being picked up by the Soviet police and held with no charges being filed and no lawyer and no contact with their family? We always said, ‘That’s the way they do things in a police state, not in America, God bless her.’ And, hey, now we’ve got guys who’ve been in Guantanamo for two and a half years, and they have still never been charged with anything or allowed contact with their families.”
The big guy nodded his head. “And remember when the commies were the ones who were torturing people in their prisons, or kidnapping people off the streets in other countries? Now the U.S. has secret prisons around the globe, prisoners being tortured to death, and CIA agents being indicted in Italy for kidnapping, with cell phone records and everything.”
The bald guy said, “Sure, I remember that. And do you remember how we used to hear about the Roosky secret police invading people’s private lives? And we’d say, that’s the way it is in a totalitarian society. Now somehow we have this so-called Patriot Act, and the FBI is reading your e-mail and checking to see what library books you’ve been reading!”
The fourth guy, who’d been silent up till then, said, “Remember when we used to laugh at the way the Soviet newspapers and the other media just took whatever handout the Kremlin gave them, and that was their news? And we thought it was a hoot when some big news items got blacked out completely, the way the Downing Street memos were this spring?”
The skinny guy came back with, “Remember how there were always those stories of massive corruption, with the big guys in the Kremlin tied in to companies supplying the Red Army, and the big guys got rich while the poor suckers in the army got lousy food, low pay, and equipment shortages?”
“Yeah, I thought of that when I read about Cheney and Halliburton and all those no-bid contracts they were awarded,” said the big beefy guy, shaking his head.
“Remember the blatant hypocrisy, when the Russians would take over some country and claim they had ‘liberated’ it, and then install a puppet government in the name of a ‘people’s democracy’?”
“Oh sure,” said the fourth guy. “If you followed what we’ve done in Iraq and Afghanistan, you couldn’t help but think about it.”
“Speaking of Afghanistan,” said the skinny guy, “do you remember how the Soviets thought they had that place whipped? They installed a puppet government just like we have. I can’t remember how long it took—ten years or so—but the Taliban finally bled ‘em dry and ran the commies out of there. With our help! We trained the guys we’re fighting now. Wonder how long it will take ‘em to boot us out of their country?”
I’d had about all I could take. I sidled up to the bar, and in a low tone asked Eddie, “Who are those guys? A bunch of leftover radicals from some old SDS chapter in the sixties?”
Eddie glanced at the table and gave a snort. “Those guys in SDS? No way. They’re just a bunch of Republicans with loose tongues and long memories.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
“National Republican Radio”
Office of the Board of Directors, Corporation for Public Broadcasting -
“Mr. Chairman?”
“Yes, Warren.”
“Isn’t it time that we get around to changing our name from ‘Corporation for Public Broadcasting’ to ‘Corporation for Republican Broadcasting’?”
“Now, Warren, you can’t hurry these things. Rome wasn’t built in a day. It’s more complicated than you think. Since we’re in charge of public radio, should we change that from ‘National Public Radio’ to ‘National Republican Radio’? Or public television from ‘PBS’ to ‘RBS’? Do we change all three names at once, or make the changes one at a time?”
“Mr. Chairman, I move to strike the reference to Rome from the minutes! The media don’t need anything else that hints at an ‘American empire’ parallel.”
“Point well taken, Bruce. Edie, please delete any references to Rome from the record. Now, before we get to new business, Harold is going to present us with an update on our accomplishments so far. All set, Harold?”
“Sure thing, Ken. I want to say, first of all, that we owe you a debt of gratitude for bringing your experience as former head of Voice of America in the Reagan administration and as an editor for Reader's Digest to our situation here at CPB. That’s the kind of balanced perspective we’ve been needing for a long time.”
“Thanks very much, Harold. I do what I can, and can who I have to—that’s a joke, Edie.”
“Okay, Mr. Chairman. Here’s what we’ve accomplished so far: Bob Edwards has been dumped; we’ve given the Wall Street Journal a show of its own to showcase the corporate worldview; we’ve hired Fred Mann, a Republican consultant and commentator who worked for Dan Quayle, to keep track of the guests' political leanings on Now with Bill Moyers; and we’ve brought a White House communications officer aboard as a special advisor. Whenever we need guidance on policy issues, he’ll let us know what the White House wants. And wait until you hear the best news. We’ve just installed Patricia Harrison, former co-chair of the Republican National Committee, as the new president of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting! If ever there was somebody who was proud to be riding the elephant, it’s Pat. And here she is! Let’s all give Pat a big hand!”
“Thanks you for that nice introduction, Harold. I won’t say much at this point. Just that if you think right, you’re in the right place now!”
“I’m sure we are. Good to have you aboard, Pat. Bruce, do you have those new programming ideas your committee has been working on?
“You bet, Mr. Chairman. We’re proposing that we totally wipe out the witty liberal slant on NPR. We want to replace Terry Gross and Fresh Air with Hot Air, a conservative interview show hosted by somebody like Rush Limbaugh. Whodya Know, a quiz show pairing real-life lobbyists and Congressional staffers, would take the place of Whaddya Know with Michael Feldman. We want to drop This American Life, with Ira Glass and that array of misfits, and replace it with Our American Life, modeled on articles from Guideposts magazine—heartwarming stories of Christian faith and efficacious prayer. And for good measure, we’d like to replace Tom and Ray and Car Talk with Dick and Rummy and War Talk. We’re confident we can line up a ton of corporate underwriters for that one. ”
“I like your thinking, Bruce. That kind of program lineup really reflects where we want the country to go. Don’t stop when you’re on a roll.”
“Mr. Chairman, there’s somebody down there at the end of the table who has been waving his hand for a while.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Are you one of those holdovers from the old bipartisan board?”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman. I just wanted to say that this board was originally designed to shield public broadcasting from partisan political influence. I’m wondering if the changes you’ve made are really faithful to our founding mission, which was to ‘provide a voice for groups in the community that may otherwise be unheard,’ to serve as ‘a forum for controversy and debate,’ and to offer programs that ‘help us see America whole, in all its diversity’?”
“Good Lord, is that supposed to be our mission? I certainly appreciate your drawing that to my attention. There’s just so much to undo here that I know I overlook things sometimes. We’ll tend to that right now. Do I hear a motion to draft a new mission statement more in line with the White House’s vision? Good. Could I have a second?”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Mr. Chairman?”
“Yes, Warren.”
“Isn’t it time that we get around to changing our name from ‘Corporation for Public Broadcasting’ to ‘Corporation for Republican Broadcasting’?”
“Now, Warren, you can’t hurry these things. Rome wasn’t built in a day. It’s more complicated than you think. Since we’re in charge of public radio, should we change that from ‘National Public Radio’ to ‘National Republican Radio’? Or public television from ‘PBS’ to ‘RBS’? Do we change all three names at once, or make the changes one at a time?”
“Mr. Chairman, I move to strike the reference to Rome from the minutes! The media don’t need anything else that hints at an ‘American empire’ parallel.”
“Point well taken, Bruce. Edie, please delete any references to Rome from the record. Now, before we get to new business, Harold is going to present us with an update on our accomplishments so far. All set, Harold?”
“Sure thing, Ken. I want to say, first of all, that we owe you a debt of gratitude for bringing your experience as former head of Voice of America in the Reagan administration and as an editor for Reader's Digest to our situation here at CPB. That’s the kind of balanced perspective we’ve been needing for a long time.”
“Thanks very much, Harold. I do what I can, and can who I have to—that’s a joke, Edie.”
“Okay, Mr. Chairman. Here’s what we’ve accomplished so far: Bob Edwards has been dumped; we’ve given the Wall Street Journal a show of its own to showcase the corporate worldview; we’ve hired Fred Mann, a Republican consultant and commentator who worked for Dan Quayle, to keep track of the guests' political leanings on Now with Bill Moyers; and we’ve brought a White House communications officer aboard as a special advisor. Whenever we need guidance on policy issues, he’ll let us know what the White House wants. And wait until you hear the best news. We’ve just installed Patricia Harrison, former co-chair of the Republican National Committee, as the new president of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting! If ever there was somebody who was proud to be riding the elephant, it’s Pat. And here she is! Let’s all give Pat a big hand!”
“Thanks you for that nice introduction, Harold. I won’t say much at this point. Just that if you think right, you’re in the right place now!”
“I’m sure we are. Good to have you aboard, Pat. Bruce, do you have those new programming ideas your committee has been working on?
“You bet, Mr. Chairman. We’re proposing that we totally wipe out the witty liberal slant on NPR. We want to replace Terry Gross and Fresh Air with Hot Air, a conservative interview show hosted by somebody like Rush Limbaugh. Whodya Know, a quiz show pairing real-life lobbyists and Congressional staffers, would take the place of Whaddya Know with Michael Feldman. We want to drop This American Life, with Ira Glass and that array of misfits, and replace it with Our American Life, modeled on articles from Guideposts magazine—heartwarming stories of Christian faith and efficacious prayer. And for good measure, we’d like to replace Tom and Ray and Car Talk with Dick and Rummy and War Talk. We’re confident we can line up a ton of corporate underwriters for that one. ”
“I like your thinking, Bruce. That kind of program lineup really reflects where we want the country to go. Don’t stop when you’re on a roll.”
“Mr. Chairman, there’s somebody down there at the end of the table who has been waving his hand for a while.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Are you one of those holdovers from the old bipartisan board?”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman. I just wanted to say that this board was originally designed to shield public broadcasting from partisan political influence. I’m wondering if the changes you’ve made are really faithful to our founding mission, which was to ‘provide a voice for groups in the community that may otherwise be unheard,’ to serve as ‘a forum for controversy and debate,’ and to offer programs that ‘help us see America whole, in all its diversity’?”
“Good Lord, is that supposed to be our mission? I certainly appreciate your drawing that to my attention. There’s just so much to undo here that I know I overlook things sometimes. We’ll tend to that right now. Do I hear a motion to draft a new mission statement more in line with the White House’s vision? Good. Could I have a second?”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Sunday, July 17, 2005
“Spineless Democrats”
My editor had sent me to interview a college professor, and I felt out of place. “Tell me, Doc,” I began, once we were seated, “what exactly is your title here at the university?”
“I’m in the Political Biology field,” he said. “I hold the chair in Comparative Political Anatomy.”
“Hope that chair is softer than this one!” I joked. It’s always good to put the interviewee at his ease. “I expected you’d have a huge lab,” I went on, “but you seem to have mostly office space.”
“I do some lab work,” he said, “but mostly I do field biology. I study the political animal in his native habitat—legislative chambers, smoke-filled rooms, watering holes near the capital. We only use the lab when one of our subjects is pronounced politically dead. Then we bring him here and perform an autopsy on the carcass.”
“I see,” I nodded. I’ve found that if you don’t understand a word somebody said, your best bet is just to nod. “Look, the reason I’m here is that the book you just published has created quite a stir. In it you announce the discovery of a new political species, the Spineless Democrat. Finding a new species must have been quite a thrill for you.”
“It’s actually a subspecies of the Common Democrat,” he said. “There have been isolated reports of such a creature from time to time, but it’s so drab that it generally escapes notice.”
“What led you to your discovery?”
“I had been observing widespread behavior indicating the absence of a backbone—Democrats lining up to support the Patriot Act, handing the President the power to start the war, voting to cut taxes for the rich, voting for CAFTA, endorsing the Republicans’ bankruptcy bill, being bought off on that godawful energy bill, etc.--, so there were some indications where to look.”
“From your description, it sounds as if it would be tough to tell them and Republicans apart.”
“A lot of people confuse the two species; they’re almost identical. You can distinguish the Spineless Democrat by his timidity, his poor vision, and the absence of venom in his fangs.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Well, of course the lab work was more complicated than that. Some of the specimens were gutless, some had lost their heads, some their posteriors, and some their spines, so it took awhile to sort them all out.”
“How do these spineless creatures move around? Do they scuttle like crabs, for instance, or do they crawl on their belly like a reptile?”
“That was one of the amazing things we found. They actually have an exoskeleton—an outside skeleton, covering the surface of their body—made up of starched shirts and pinstriped business suits. They’re able to remain in a vertical position for fairly long periods of time, and are surprisingly mobile.”
“So they’re often upright?” I said, jotting a note.
“No,” he said, “just vertical.”
“Is there a large population?” I asked.
“It’s fairly sizable for the time being,” he said, “but the number of Democrats holding office is declining, and we think the spineless variety may be the reason. They seem unable to reproduce. Every specimen we’ve examined so far has been sterile.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“I’m in the Political Biology field,” he said. “I hold the chair in Comparative Political Anatomy.”
“Hope that chair is softer than this one!” I joked. It’s always good to put the interviewee at his ease. “I expected you’d have a huge lab,” I went on, “but you seem to have mostly office space.”
“I do some lab work,” he said, “but mostly I do field biology. I study the political animal in his native habitat—legislative chambers, smoke-filled rooms, watering holes near the capital. We only use the lab when one of our subjects is pronounced politically dead. Then we bring him here and perform an autopsy on the carcass.”
“I see,” I nodded. I’ve found that if you don’t understand a word somebody said, your best bet is just to nod. “Look, the reason I’m here is that the book you just published has created quite a stir. In it you announce the discovery of a new political species, the Spineless Democrat. Finding a new species must have been quite a thrill for you.”
“It’s actually a subspecies of the Common Democrat,” he said. “There have been isolated reports of such a creature from time to time, but it’s so drab that it generally escapes notice.”
“What led you to your discovery?”
“I had been observing widespread behavior indicating the absence of a backbone—Democrats lining up to support the Patriot Act, handing the President the power to start the war, voting to cut taxes for the rich, voting for CAFTA, endorsing the Republicans’ bankruptcy bill, being bought off on that godawful energy bill, etc.--, so there were some indications where to look.”
“From your description, it sounds as if it would be tough to tell them and Republicans apart.”
“A lot of people confuse the two species; they’re almost identical. You can distinguish the Spineless Democrat by his timidity, his poor vision, and the absence of venom in his fangs.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Well, of course the lab work was more complicated than that. Some of the specimens were gutless, some had lost their heads, some their posteriors, and some their spines, so it took awhile to sort them all out.”
“How do these spineless creatures move around? Do they scuttle like crabs, for instance, or do they crawl on their belly like a reptile?”
“That was one of the amazing things we found. They actually have an exoskeleton—an outside skeleton, covering the surface of their body—made up of starched shirts and pinstriped business suits. They’re able to remain in a vertical position for fairly long periods of time, and are surprisingly mobile.”
“So they’re often upright?” I said, jotting a note.
“No,” he said, “just vertical.”
“Is there a large population?” I asked.
“It’s fairly sizable for the time being,” he said, “but the number of Democrats holding office is declining, and we think the spineless variety may be the reason. They seem unable to reproduce. Every specimen we’ve examined so far has been sterile.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
“A Faith-Based Press Conference”
“Good to see so many of you here in the White House chapel for our first annual faith-based press conference. I’m ready for the tough questions, so let’s get started. Who wants to go first?”
“I will, sir. Mr. President, now that we have proof that you lied repeatedly to manipulate the nation into war with Iraq, do you think it would be appropriate to ask for forgiveness for all the thousands of people who have been killed, blinded, crippled, maimed, widowed, orphaned, or otherwise harmed by your actions?”
“I’m glad you asked that. See, most people don’t understand that you have to break eggs to bake a cake. When I hit the floor beside my bed every night, I think of that cake, and pray the Lord my soul to bake. Next question?”
“Yes, sir. I wonder if I might follow up on that issue a bit. You’ve come out staunchly against abortion and stem cell research, saying that you would do everything in your power to protect life. How do you square the hundred thousand or more deaths you are directly and deliberately responsible for with what you have said is your commitment to life?”
“That’s a good question, Ted. Let me respond by asking you a question: Who let you in here? Will somebody please escort him out the door and replace him with an embedded reporter? Thanks. Somebody else?”
“Over here, sir. As you know, your administration systematically plans, carries out, and attempts to justify cruel and barbaric treatment of prisoners; it brushes off the deaths of the innocent in war as collateral damage; and it strongly supports the death penalty for a wide variety of offenses. Some people claim these actions are unthinkable for a true follower of Christ, who let himself be tortured and crucified rather that strike his enemies. Would you care to comment on that?”
“Where are these people coming from? Where are all the usual reporters, who ask me if I had a nice vacation and whether the economy is going to improve and stuff like that? I don’t know whose idea this thing was, but heads are going to roll. Yes, you over there by the window.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. The Bible speaks often of the evil of pursuing riches and worldly gain, yet you and your family throw yourselves wholeheartedly into growing ever richer. Your administration is remarkable for the extent to which it favors the rich at the expense of everyone else. How do you square your personal and political behavior with Biblical values?”
“I’m glad this is a country—and a news conference, for that matter—where we can talk about Biblical values. I used to be a doper and a drunk, but once Jesus came into my heart, I found new peace, as well as a piece of the ownership of the Texas Rangers. He has blessed me with the chance to cut some really nifty deals. See, God looks after those who look out for Him. The Golden Rule: you slap my back and I’ll slap yours. A lot of people don’t understand that.”
“Mr. President, I was wondering if it bothers you to cynically exploit the trust of decent, ordinary churchgoers, like those women in the choir in Nashville, for example?”
“I’ll have to check with my spiritual advisors on that. I’ll get back to you.”
“Mr. President! Mr. President!”
“Will you all stop waving your hands for a minute! I’m looking for that fake reporter we planted in here, and I can’t see him if you’re going to keep jumping around. Oh, there he is. Tell me, what question do you have for me today, Ed?”
“Mr. President, I wonder if it bothers a born-in-the-blood, Bible-believing Christian like yourself to be second-guessed by a bunch of atheistic progressives, Bible-burning liberals, and anti-Christ Democrats?”
“Well, praise the Lord, it’s about time. That’s the kind of fair and well-balanced question we’re looking for. Let me just say I want to make it clear right now that I don’t think every Democrat is necessarily the spawn of Satan. Some of them voted for me. On the other hand, it stands to reason that opposition to my God-driven agenda has to originate somewhere. That’s all I’ve got to say; people can draw their own conclusions.
“One more question. You there in the back row.”
“Mr. President, where do you stand on the separation of church and state?”
“Whoa, looks as if we’ve run out of time! Let’s wrap things up. Dr. Dobson, would you lead us in closing prayer?”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“I will, sir. Mr. President, now that we have proof that you lied repeatedly to manipulate the nation into war with Iraq, do you think it would be appropriate to ask for forgiveness for all the thousands of people who have been killed, blinded, crippled, maimed, widowed, orphaned, or otherwise harmed by your actions?”
“I’m glad you asked that. See, most people don’t understand that you have to break eggs to bake a cake. When I hit the floor beside my bed every night, I think of that cake, and pray the Lord my soul to bake. Next question?”
“Yes, sir. I wonder if I might follow up on that issue a bit. You’ve come out staunchly against abortion and stem cell research, saying that you would do everything in your power to protect life. How do you square the hundred thousand or more deaths you are directly and deliberately responsible for with what you have said is your commitment to life?”
“That’s a good question, Ted. Let me respond by asking you a question: Who let you in here? Will somebody please escort him out the door and replace him with an embedded reporter? Thanks. Somebody else?”
“Over here, sir. As you know, your administration systematically plans, carries out, and attempts to justify cruel and barbaric treatment of prisoners; it brushes off the deaths of the innocent in war as collateral damage; and it strongly supports the death penalty for a wide variety of offenses. Some people claim these actions are unthinkable for a true follower of Christ, who let himself be tortured and crucified rather that strike his enemies. Would you care to comment on that?”
“Where are these people coming from? Where are all the usual reporters, who ask me if I had a nice vacation and whether the economy is going to improve and stuff like that? I don’t know whose idea this thing was, but heads are going to roll. Yes, you over there by the window.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. The Bible speaks often of the evil of pursuing riches and worldly gain, yet you and your family throw yourselves wholeheartedly into growing ever richer. Your administration is remarkable for the extent to which it favors the rich at the expense of everyone else. How do you square your personal and political behavior with Biblical values?”
“I’m glad this is a country—and a news conference, for that matter—where we can talk about Biblical values. I used to be a doper and a drunk, but once Jesus came into my heart, I found new peace, as well as a piece of the ownership of the Texas Rangers. He has blessed me with the chance to cut some really nifty deals. See, God looks after those who look out for Him. The Golden Rule: you slap my back and I’ll slap yours. A lot of people don’t understand that.”
“Mr. President, I was wondering if it bothers you to cynically exploit the trust of decent, ordinary churchgoers, like those women in the choir in Nashville, for example?”
“I’ll have to check with my spiritual advisors on that. I’ll get back to you.”
“Mr. President! Mr. President!”
“Will you all stop waving your hands for a minute! I’m looking for that fake reporter we planted in here, and I can’t see him if you’re going to keep jumping around. Oh, there he is. Tell me, what question do you have for me today, Ed?”
“Mr. President, I wonder if it bothers a born-in-the-blood, Bible-believing Christian like yourself to be second-guessed by a bunch of atheistic progressives, Bible-burning liberals, and anti-Christ Democrats?”
“Well, praise the Lord, it’s about time. That’s the kind of fair and well-balanced question we’re looking for. Let me just say I want to make it clear right now that I don’t think every Democrat is necessarily the spawn of Satan. Some of them voted for me. On the other hand, it stands to reason that opposition to my God-driven agenda has to originate somewhere. That’s all I’ve got to say; people can draw their own conclusions.
“One more question. You there in the back row.”
“Mr. President, where do you stand on the separation of church and state?”
“Whoa, looks as if we’ve run out of time! Let’s wrap things up. Dr. Dobson, would you lead us in closing prayer?”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Monday, July 04, 2005
“The Big Picture”
Late at night, deep in the bowels of the White House, three desperate men meet (somewhat in the manner of e.coli converging). One speaks. “Guys, we can talk frankly here. The President’s poll numbers are dropping to his IQ level. The body count in Iraq is rising like the national debt. Afghanistan is falling apart faster than our cover story for invading Iraq. We’ve got to do something. What?”
“Dick, why don’t we just run off another couple hundred thousand of those ‘Standing Tall’ bumper stickers and pass them out?”
“They’re already on order, Don, along with a batch of ‘These Colors Don’t Run.’”
“Maybe we could get Lee Greenwood to appear with the Prez and sing ‘God Bless the USA’?”
“It’s been done, Karl, but I guess I could get out the ear plugs and do it again.”
“How about activating our pastoral support network?” asked Karl. “Have them hold Fourth of July services doing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ along with the Pledge of Allegiance and songs like ‘Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus, Ye Soldiers of the Cross.’”
“I don’t know,” Dick responded. “I’m a little leery about asking churches to plug the war.”
“Come on, Dick, get real! What are you doing, developing a conscience? You’re a politician, for Christ’s sake.”
“No, Don, I’m not developing a conscience. Mine’s the size of a booger and shrinking. It’s just uneasiness about asking them to go out on a limb and endorse a lost cause,” said Dick defensively.
Whoops. Dead silence. Dick had just spoken the unthinkable. Thought the unspeakable. Whatever. We’re losing another war to people who don’t speak English and aren’t even Christian. TV footage of people hanging from helicopters, fleeing in panic from the embassy roof in Baghdad, raced through each of their heads.
“Uh, look, Dick,” said Karl. “Why don’t we play up the Iraqi elections—you know, we’re moving toward democracy, our goal is clear, it just takes a little time, you run into some bumps in the road, we’re winning the war, the Vietnamese—I mean the Iraqis—are taking more and more responsibility for their own security, etc., etc.”
“That sounds good to me,” said Dick reflectively. “When in doubt, ask yourself what LBJ would do. Did.”
“Isn’t that a little tricky?” worried Don. “Aren’t people going to see that we’re feeding them the same diet of deception, meal after meal, war after war?”
Dick laughed. “It’s like eating potato chips. They know it’s unhealthy, but they just grab another handful and shove’em in the dip.”
“Suppose we attack liberals for sympathizing with the enemy,” suggested Karl. “We could claim that showing basic human decency to prisoners is the same thing as supporting al Qaeda.”
“We’ve played that card before,” said Dick, “and you’d think sooner or later people would wise up. But you would be wrong. Let’s go for it. Karl, it was your idea; you be the point man on this one.”
An idea had been surfacing in Don’s mind, like a mine elevator rising slowly from a coal shaft. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Hold on. We’re not really in that bad a shape! Think about it. So the country’s going to hell in a hot rod. So everything we touch turns to manure. So what? Look at the big picture:
“The President just got re-elected. Our majority in the Senate is swelling like a tumor. With that slick redistricting trick Tom DeLay pulled in Texas, we have a semi-permanent lock on the House. And when we fill one—maybe two—seats on the Supreme Court, we’ll have a conservative majority that’s good for a generation. Four out of four ain’t bad!
“People want a pretty war with nobody getting hurt? Tough. People want fairness instead of favors for the rich? Tough. People get queasy about having their kids drinking poisoned water, breathing polluted air, and eating genetically modified food? Tough. People resent underfunded schools with impossible mandates? Tough. We’re in the saddle, and we’re taking these cattle for a long drive.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Dick, why don’t we just run off another couple hundred thousand of those ‘Standing Tall’ bumper stickers and pass them out?”
“They’re already on order, Don, along with a batch of ‘These Colors Don’t Run.’”
“Maybe we could get Lee Greenwood to appear with the Prez and sing ‘God Bless the USA’?”
“It’s been done, Karl, but I guess I could get out the ear plugs and do it again.”
“How about activating our pastoral support network?” asked Karl. “Have them hold Fourth of July services doing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ along with the Pledge of Allegiance and songs like ‘Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus, Ye Soldiers of the Cross.’”
“I don’t know,” Dick responded. “I’m a little leery about asking churches to plug the war.”
“Come on, Dick, get real! What are you doing, developing a conscience? You’re a politician, for Christ’s sake.”
“No, Don, I’m not developing a conscience. Mine’s the size of a booger and shrinking. It’s just uneasiness about asking them to go out on a limb and endorse a lost cause,” said Dick defensively.
Whoops. Dead silence. Dick had just spoken the unthinkable. Thought the unspeakable. Whatever. We’re losing another war to people who don’t speak English and aren’t even Christian. TV footage of people hanging from helicopters, fleeing in panic from the embassy roof in Baghdad, raced through each of their heads.
“Uh, look, Dick,” said Karl. “Why don’t we play up the Iraqi elections—you know, we’re moving toward democracy, our goal is clear, it just takes a little time, you run into some bumps in the road, we’re winning the war, the Vietnamese—I mean the Iraqis—are taking more and more responsibility for their own security, etc., etc.”
“That sounds good to me,” said Dick reflectively. “When in doubt, ask yourself what LBJ would do. Did.”
“Isn’t that a little tricky?” worried Don. “Aren’t people going to see that we’re feeding them the same diet of deception, meal after meal, war after war?”
Dick laughed. “It’s like eating potato chips. They know it’s unhealthy, but they just grab another handful and shove’em in the dip.”
“Suppose we attack liberals for sympathizing with the enemy,” suggested Karl. “We could claim that showing basic human decency to prisoners is the same thing as supporting al Qaeda.”
“We’ve played that card before,” said Dick, “and you’d think sooner or later people would wise up. But you would be wrong. Let’s go for it. Karl, it was your idea; you be the point man on this one.”
An idea had been surfacing in Don’s mind, like a mine elevator rising slowly from a coal shaft. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Hold on. We’re not really in that bad a shape! Think about it. So the country’s going to hell in a hot rod. So everything we touch turns to manure. So what? Look at the big picture:
“The President just got re-elected. Our majority in the Senate is swelling like a tumor. With that slick redistricting trick Tom DeLay pulled in Texas, we have a semi-permanent lock on the House. And when we fill one—maybe two—seats on the Supreme Court, we’ll have a conservative majority that’s good for a generation. Four out of four ain’t bad!
“People want a pretty war with nobody getting hurt? Tough. People want fairness instead of favors for the rich? Tough. People get queasy about having their kids drinking poisoned water, breathing polluted air, and eating genetically modified food? Tough. People resent underfunded schools with impossible mandates? Tough. We’re in the saddle, and we’re taking these cattle for a long drive.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Thursday, June 30, 2005
“I’ll Meet You in the Lobby”
“Chuck, how’s it going, buddy? Long time no see!”
“Hey, Jack, good to see you! I’m just so damned busy since I joined the Congressman’s staff that I haven’t had time to do much of anything except milk the system and churn out public relations. I’m on the go all the time.”
“So you’ve been doing some traveling, eh? Where’ve you been?”
“Let’s see. The National Association of Real Estate Agents and Diamond News Network each paid for a trip to New York City; banking company DRT gave me a ticket to a Mets game; the American Satellite TV Dealers Trade Association flew me to Phoenix, Arizona; and Big Time Bank Corps sent me to The Lakes, Nev., to tour a credit-card center. The National Association of Previously-Owned Automobile Dealers and the Pharmaceutical Marketing Agency paid for separate trips to Charleston, South Carolina, during the Spoleto Festival and Ripley, West Virginia, during the Mountain State Arts & Crafts Fair. Diamond News Network sent me to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, Lone Star State National Savings and Home Loan Bank took me to San Antonio during the NBA finals, and the Hawaiian Visitor Recruitment Agency flew me to Oahu for a five-day conference on beach erosion. God, I just love being in power! Ever since we took control of Congress, the lobbyists have outdone themselves.”
“Is it all travel?”
“No way! Take this outing right here. A buddy and I decided to organize happy hour. But who wants to pony up their own money, right? So I called up Lou—the sour looking guy in the pinstripe shirt—and invited him. He’s a lobbyist, and we’ll end up sticking him with the bill for the beer. Order yourself another pitcher; it’s on him!”
“Thanks. I guess having somebody pick up your beer tab really cuts your expenses, huh?”
“What expenses? This isn’t just about beer. When it’s time to eat, I pick a restaurant I want to eat at, call a lobbyist for the pharmaceutical industry or the energy industry, tell them I want a lunch meeting, eat, and hand’em the bill. Sometimes if I’m feeling generous, I bring the rest of the staff along.”
“Don’t the lobbyists get upset when you call them like that and then stick’em with the tab for your food?”
“Are you serious? They’re dying for you to call. The money’s not out of their pockets, and it’s something they can show their clients. ‘Sure we’ve got access to Congressman Sellout. I had lunch with one of his senior aides three times last week.’”
“Your overhead must be awfully low!”
“Jack, somebody else pays for everything. I got turned down for a mortgage last spring. They claimed my salary was too low for the house I wanted to buy. I said, ‘What do you mean my salary is too low? The only expenses I have are rent and utilities. The lobbyists pay for everything else.’ They said, ‘Oh, sorry, we didn’t realize you were with Congress,’ and the mortgage sailed right on through.”
“Don’t these industry lobbyists expect something in return?”
“You’re joking, right? For a few hundred thousand bucks worth of favors and campaign contributions, almost any industry can get legislation written that will be worth millions, maybe even billions of dollars. Hell, usually we let them write it themselves, to save ourselves the work. I’m ashamed we sell out so cheap; we’re the best deal in Washington! But listen to me go on. Enough about me, Jack. What are you doing these days?”
“I work as an investigator for the Government Accounting Office.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Hey, Jack, good to see you! I’m just so damned busy since I joined the Congressman’s staff that I haven’t had time to do much of anything except milk the system and churn out public relations. I’m on the go all the time.”
“So you’ve been doing some traveling, eh? Where’ve you been?”
“Let’s see. The National Association of Real Estate Agents and Diamond News Network each paid for a trip to New York City; banking company DRT gave me a ticket to a Mets game; the American Satellite TV Dealers Trade Association flew me to Phoenix, Arizona; and Big Time Bank Corps sent me to The Lakes, Nev., to tour a credit-card center. The National Association of Previously-Owned Automobile Dealers and the Pharmaceutical Marketing Agency paid for separate trips to Charleston, South Carolina, during the Spoleto Festival and Ripley, West Virginia, during the Mountain State Arts & Crafts Fair. Diamond News Network sent me to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, Lone Star State National Savings and Home Loan Bank took me to San Antonio during the NBA finals, and the Hawaiian Visitor Recruitment Agency flew me to Oahu for a five-day conference on beach erosion. God, I just love being in power! Ever since we took control of Congress, the lobbyists have outdone themselves.”
“Is it all travel?”
“No way! Take this outing right here. A buddy and I decided to organize happy hour. But who wants to pony up their own money, right? So I called up Lou—the sour looking guy in the pinstripe shirt—and invited him. He’s a lobbyist, and we’ll end up sticking him with the bill for the beer. Order yourself another pitcher; it’s on him!”
“Thanks. I guess having somebody pick up your beer tab really cuts your expenses, huh?”
“What expenses? This isn’t just about beer. When it’s time to eat, I pick a restaurant I want to eat at, call a lobbyist for the pharmaceutical industry or the energy industry, tell them I want a lunch meeting, eat, and hand’em the bill. Sometimes if I’m feeling generous, I bring the rest of the staff along.”
“Don’t the lobbyists get upset when you call them like that and then stick’em with the tab for your food?”
“Are you serious? They’re dying for you to call. The money’s not out of their pockets, and it’s something they can show their clients. ‘Sure we’ve got access to Congressman Sellout. I had lunch with one of his senior aides three times last week.’”
“Your overhead must be awfully low!”
“Jack, somebody else pays for everything. I got turned down for a mortgage last spring. They claimed my salary was too low for the house I wanted to buy. I said, ‘What do you mean my salary is too low? The only expenses I have are rent and utilities. The lobbyists pay for everything else.’ They said, ‘Oh, sorry, we didn’t realize you were with Congress,’ and the mortgage sailed right on through.”
“Don’t these industry lobbyists expect something in return?”
“You’re joking, right? For a few hundred thousand bucks worth of favors and campaign contributions, almost any industry can get legislation written that will be worth millions, maybe even billions of dollars. Hell, usually we let them write it themselves, to save ourselves the work. I’m ashamed we sell out so cheap; we’re the best deal in Washington! But listen to me go on. Enough about me, Jack. What are you doing these days?”
“I work as an investigator for the Government Accounting Office.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
“Uncle Sam’s Birthday”
Shorty was sitting in the barbershop, chewing the fat with Bert, when I stopped in for my daily dose of local news. “Hey,” I said, “how’s Uncle Sam doing? He’s got a birthday coming up, hasn’t he?”
“To tell the truth, he’s not doin’ that well, Ace,” Shorty said. “But what can you expect? He’s gonna be two hundred and twenty-nine years old. You can’t expect him to act like a young nation forever.”
“I always thought he had an iron constitution,” I said.
“Me too,” confessed Shorty. “But his constitution’s not what it used to be. Jailing people without charging them with a crime. Not allowing them to see a lawyer. Torturing people. Feeding lies to the public. Forking out money to religions. I’ll tell ya, he’s changed. It’s pathetic to see him go downhill like that.”
“I heard he’s having blackouts,” said Bert.
“Yeah, he just had one that lasted about six weeks,” said Shorty. “Proof that the President had lied to drag us into war. The story broke in England, and for six weeks, not a single major network, newspaper, or news magazine in this country gave it any notice.”
“That’s scary,” said Bert. “Anything could happen to him if he’s having episodes like that.”
“It’s funny how it came on him all of a sudden,” I reflected.
“Well, you know, he had that war fever a few years back, and then that patriotic fever right after that,” said Shorty, “and he’s never been the same since.”
“I don’t know that he’s over those fevers yet,” said Bert. “I think it’s like malaria. Once you get it in your system, you have these recurrent attacks.”
“You might be right,” said Shorty. “But the family has called in all kinds of specialists—Dr. Rice, Wolfowitz, Feith, Rumsfeld—and they all say to stick with their prescription.”
“Gee, I’d have to think twice about that,” said Bert. “If something’s not working, maybe it’s time to try something different.”
“A couple of people have suggested that,” said Shorty, “but these specialists insist their new treatment will work if you give it enough time.”
“Their treatment seems pretty harsh,” said Bert. “Are you sure that’s what Uncle Sam wants?”
“They’re hard on the poor and the middle class,” admitted Shorty. “But that’s what you get when you choose those guys.”
“Wolfowitz, Feith, Rumsfeld, Rice. Boy,” I mused, “their bills must really be something. Help like that doesn’t come cheap!”
“You can say that again,” agreed Shorty. “Over two hundred billion dollars is what I’ve heard.”
I whistled. “That much! I’ve heard the family has money, but how can they afford bills like that?”
“They can’t in the long term,” said Shorty. “They’re mortgaged their future to the hilt, they’re saddling their children and grandchildren with debt, and they’re in hock to China and other Asian nations for huge sums. And it’s not just money. It’s the human cost too. Over a hundred thousand people dead. People blinded, crippled, maimed, and emotionally devastated. Cities leveled, homes gutted, futures ruined, families destroyed.”
“Is that what the specialists said would happen?” I asked.
“No, it’s not,” said Shorty, after thinking about it for a minute. “They painted a pretty rosy picture at the start. They said the treatment would be cheap and practically pay for itself. They figured the war would be over in no time.”
“You know,” said Bert, “if they were so wrong about that, maybe they’re wrong about the rest of it too. Uncle Sam’s old ways worked pretty well. Maybe he knew what he was doing all along.”
“If he’s in that kind of shape,” I said, “it’s a good thing he’s got Medicare and his Social Security.”
“Oh yeah,” began Shorty. “I forgot to mention ….”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“To tell the truth, he’s not doin’ that well, Ace,” Shorty said. “But what can you expect? He’s gonna be two hundred and twenty-nine years old. You can’t expect him to act like a young nation forever.”
“I always thought he had an iron constitution,” I said.
“Me too,” confessed Shorty. “But his constitution’s not what it used to be. Jailing people without charging them with a crime. Not allowing them to see a lawyer. Torturing people. Feeding lies to the public. Forking out money to religions. I’ll tell ya, he’s changed. It’s pathetic to see him go downhill like that.”
“I heard he’s having blackouts,” said Bert.
“Yeah, he just had one that lasted about six weeks,” said Shorty. “Proof that the President had lied to drag us into war. The story broke in England, and for six weeks, not a single major network, newspaper, or news magazine in this country gave it any notice.”
“That’s scary,” said Bert. “Anything could happen to him if he’s having episodes like that.”
“It’s funny how it came on him all of a sudden,” I reflected.
“Well, you know, he had that war fever a few years back, and then that patriotic fever right after that,” said Shorty, “and he’s never been the same since.”
“I don’t know that he’s over those fevers yet,” said Bert. “I think it’s like malaria. Once you get it in your system, you have these recurrent attacks.”
“You might be right,” said Shorty. “But the family has called in all kinds of specialists—Dr. Rice, Wolfowitz, Feith, Rumsfeld—and they all say to stick with their prescription.”
“Gee, I’d have to think twice about that,” said Bert. “If something’s not working, maybe it’s time to try something different.”
“A couple of people have suggested that,” said Shorty, “but these specialists insist their new treatment will work if you give it enough time.”
“Their treatment seems pretty harsh,” said Bert. “Are you sure that’s what Uncle Sam wants?”
“They’re hard on the poor and the middle class,” admitted Shorty. “But that’s what you get when you choose those guys.”
“Wolfowitz, Feith, Rumsfeld, Rice. Boy,” I mused, “their bills must really be something. Help like that doesn’t come cheap!”
“You can say that again,” agreed Shorty. “Over two hundred billion dollars is what I’ve heard.”
I whistled. “That much! I’ve heard the family has money, but how can they afford bills like that?”
“They can’t in the long term,” said Shorty. “They’re mortgaged their future to the hilt, they’re saddling their children and grandchildren with debt, and they’re in hock to China and other Asian nations for huge sums. And it’s not just money. It’s the human cost too. Over a hundred thousand people dead. People blinded, crippled, maimed, and emotionally devastated. Cities leveled, homes gutted, futures ruined, families destroyed.”
“Is that what the specialists said would happen?” I asked.
“No, it’s not,” said Shorty, after thinking about it for a minute. “They painted a pretty rosy picture at the start. They said the treatment would be cheap and practically pay for itself. They figured the war would be over in no time.”
“You know,” said Bert, “if they were so wrong about that, maybe they’re wrong about the rest of it too. Uncle Sam’s old ways worked pretty well. Maybe he knew what he was doing all along.”
“If he’s in that kind of shape,” I said, “it’s a good thing he’s got Medicare and his Social Security.”
“Oh yeah,” began Shorty. “I forgot to mention ….”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Saturday, June 18, 2005
“Picking an Editor/Editor’s Pick”
“What’s going on?” I asked Chet, staring at the crowd gathered around a row of plate glass windows.
“Are you just getting here, Ace?” said Chet. “If you’d get to work when you’re supposed to, you’d know that today is the finals of the competition to pick a new editor for the paper.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “I forgot today was the day. How’s it going?”
“It’s down to the final four contestants,” said Chet. “They’re taking a lap around the course right now.” The crowd suddenly broke into loud, sustained cheers. “Sounds like something big!” he said.
We hurried over to the nearest window. “What happened?” asked Chet.
“Ol’ Norb blew’em away,” said Dale, who was standing near the front. “He jogged past the 500-pound gorilla without breaking stride, kept his eyes straight ahead as he stepped between the whales thrashing on the beach, and finished by walking right between the legs of the giant blue elephant without so much as giving it a glance! It was just like he didn’t see a thing!”
“Sounds like he’s got the right instincts,” I admitted. “Was that the final event?”
“Nah, one more to go,” said Dale, turning back around, anxious not to miss it. “In this event they have one minute to look through four stories, then pick the one they would feature on the front page of the evening edition.”
“What are the stories?” asked Chet.
“Let’s see. There’s one on Brad and Angelina, claiming she bought him a ring. There’s another about the mother in the Michael Jackson case. There’s one where Paris Hilton says she’s in love. And there’s one about a leaked memo showing that the Bush administration had secret plans to attack Iraq, and was manipulating the intelligence to make a phony case for the war.”
“Wow!” said Chet. “That’s a toughie!”
“Are you serious?” asked Dale scornfully. “It’s a slam-dunk.”
While the other three contestants were still brooding over their choice, Norb, without hesitation, held up the story about the mother in the Michael Jackson case. The judge glanced at the story, grabbed Norb’s hand, and lifted it in triumph.
“Yes! My man!” said Dale, pumping his fist in the air.
I looked at Chet. He must have seen the doubt on my face. “Now come on, Ace,” said Chet defensively. “You’ve got to admit he has a nose for news. His decision puts him in select company. The New York Times, the L A Times, the Washington Post, all of those big papers had editors who made the same choice.”
“I just don’t get it,” I said, shaking my head. “Michael Jackson is yesterday’s news. Paris Hilton is what’s happening. She’s hot!”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Are you just getting here, Ace?” said Chet. “If you’d get to work when you’re supposed to, you’d know that today is the finals of the competition to pick a new editor for the paper.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “I forgot today was the day. How’s it going?”
“It’s down to the final four contestants,” said Chet. “They’re taking a lap around the course right now.” The crowd suddenly broke into loud, sustained cheers. “Sounds like something big!” he said.
We hurried over to the nearest window. “What happened?” asked Chet.
“Ol’ Norb blew’em away,” said Dale, who was standing near the front. “He jogged past the 500-pound gorilla without breaking stride, kept his eyes straight ahead as he stepped between the whales thrashing on the beach, and finished by walking right between the legs of the giant blue elephant without so much as giving it a glance! It was just like he didn’t see a thing!”
“Sounds like he’s got the right instincts,” I admitted. “Was that the final event?”
“Nah, one more to go,” said Dale, turning back around, anxious not to miss it. “In this event they have one minute to look through four stories, then pick the one they would feature on the front page of the evening edition.”
“What are the stories?” asked Chet.
“Let’s see. There’s one on Brad and Angelina, claiming she bought him a ring. There’s another about the mother in the Michael Jackson case. There’s one where Paris Hilton says she’s in love. And there’s one about a leaked memo showing that the Bush administration had secret plans to attack Iraq, and was manipulating the intelligence to make a phony case for the war.”
“Wow!” said Chet. “That’s a toughie!”
“Are you serious?” asked Dale scornfully. “It’s a slam-dunk.”
While the other three contestants were still brooding over their choice, Norb, without hesitation, held up the story about the mother in the Michael Jackson case. The judge glanced at the story, grabbed Norb’s hand, and lifted it in triumph.
“Yes! My man!” said Dale, pumping his fist in the air.
I looked at Chet. He must have seen the doubt on my face. “Now come on, Ace,” said Chet defensively. “You’ve got to admit he has a nose for news. His decision puts him in select company. The New York Times, the L A Times, the Washington Post, all of those big papers had editors who made the same choice.”
“I just don’t get it,” I said, shaking my head. “Michael Jackson is yesterday’s news. Paris Hilton is what’s happening. She’s hot!”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
“The Case of the Disappearing Dateline”
“Next. Yes sir, how can I help you?”
The guy was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. His clothes were rumpled and his eyes were haggard, as if he had been staring too long at possibilities that frightened him. He stepped up closer to the desk. “I want to report a missing story, Officer,” he said.
The officer at the desk, McSweeney, pulled the proper form out of the drawer. “How long has this story been missing?” he asked.
“Well, it was seen in England on May 1st, but it disappeared immediately after that.”
“May 1st!” said McSweeney. “And you’re just now reporting it missing?”
“I know, I know,” said the guy. “I kept thinking it would turn up someplace, and one day went by and then another. After a while I just lost track.”
“May 1st,” said McSweeney accusingly. “That’s six weeks. With every day that goes by in a case like this, it gets harder to revive the story.”
“I know,” said the guy again. “But it’s been all over the Internet; surely something can still be done.”
“We’ll see,” grunted McSweeney. “A cold case like this, it’s dicey. Can you describe this missing story to me?”
“Sure,” said the guy. “It’s big. Really big. Or it ought to be big. It’s nearly three years old. It’s the minutes from a meeting of Tony Blair’s cabinet in London. It was written eight months before the invasion of Iraq, and it basically says that the U.S. and Britain are planning to attack Iraq, and that the Bush administration is rigging the intelligence reports in a way to justify what the administration wants to do.”
McSweeney was scribbling notes rapidly. “That’s a pretty good description. We should be able to identify it with those details. How could something that big be missing? Where have you looked for the story?”
“I’ve looked everywhere,” said the guy pleadingly. “I’ve looked at CNN, NBC, ABC, CBS, PBS, and all the major newspapers—the New York Times, the L A Times, the Washington Post and on and on. None of them carried the story. Not a trace!”
“You’re kidding, right?” said McSweeney. “A story that big and not a major news outlet in the country touches it?”
“It’s hard to understand,” admitted the guy.
“Do you have any theories on why it disappeared?”
The guy looked troubled. “None I want to believe,” he finally said.
“Come on,” said McSweeney. “A story this big doesn’t disappear on its own. It had some help.”
“What are the alternatives?” asked the guy. “A giant conspiracy involving all the major media? The Bush administration has them scared speechless? Collective blindness? A bias so pervasive it’s staggering?”
“We’re not ruling anything out at this point,” said McSweeney. “What kind of value do you set on the story?” he asked, going down to the next line on his form.
“It’s hard to set a price on something so central to a functioning democracy,” said the guy. “It’s almost priceless.”
“That’s what they all say,” said McSweeney cynically. “You think nobody’s ever set a price on truth?”
“I’ve been trying to keep tabs on what the war is costing us in dollars,” said the guy hesitantly. “I think it’s about $208 billion so far.”
“Value… $208 billion…,” said McSweeney as he wrote.
“Well, then there are the dead and wounded,” said the guy, almost apologizing. “I think it’s getting close to 1,700 Americans killed, and somewhere between 20,000 and 100,000 Iraqis.”
“That’s another department,” said McSweeney, looking up. “You’ll have to take that up with Homicide.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
The guy was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. His clothes were rumpled and his eyes were haggard, as if he had been staring too long at possibilities that frightened him. He stepped up closer to the desk. “I want to report a missing story, Officer,” he said.
The officer at the desk, McSweeney, pulled the proper form out of the drawer. “How long has this story been missing?” he asked.
“Well, it was seen in England on May 1st, but it disappeared immediately after that.”
“May 1st!” said McSweeney. “And you’re just now reporting it missing?”
“I know, I know,” said the guy. “I kept thinking it would turn up someplace, and one day went by and then another. After a while I just lost track.”
“May 1st,” said McSweeney accusingly. “That’s six weeks. With every day that goes by in a case like this, it gets harder to revive the story.”
“I know,” said the guy again. “But it’s been all over the Internet; surely something can still be done.”
“We’ll see,” grunted McSweeney. “A cold case like this, it’s dicey. Can you describe this missing story to me?”
“Sure,” said the guy. “It’s big. Really big. Or it ought to be big. It’s nearly three years old. It’s the minutes from a meeting of Tony Blair’s cabinet in London. It was written eight months before the invasion of Iraq, and it basically says that the U.S. and Britain are planning to attack Iraq, and that the Bush administration is rigging the intelligence reports in a way to justify what the administration wants to do.”
McSweeney was scribbling notes rapidly. “That’s a pretty good description. We should be able to identify it with those details. How could something that big be missing? Where have you looked for the story?”
“I’ve looked everywhere,” said the guy pleadingly. “I’ve looked at CNN, NBC, ABC, CBS, PBS, and all the major newspapers—the New York Times, the L A Times, the Washington Post and on and on. None of them carried the story. Not a trace!”
“You’re kidding, right?” said McSweeney. “A story that big and not a major news outlet in the country touches it?”
“It’s hard to understand,” admitted the guy.
“Do you have any theories on why it disappeared?”
The guy looked troubled. “None I want to believe,” he finally said.
“Come on,” said McSweeney. “A story this big doesn’t disappear on its own. It had some help.”
“What are the alternatives?” asked the guy. “A giant conspiracy involving all the major media? The Bush administration has them scared speechless? Collective blindness? A bias so pervasive it’s staggering?”
“We’re not ruling anything out at this point,” said McSweeney. “What kind of value do you set on the story?” he asked, going down to the next line on his form.
“It’s hard to set a price on something so central to a functioning democracy,” said the guy. “It’s almost priceless.”
“That’s what they all say,” said McSweeney cynically. “You think nobody’s ever set a price on truth?”
“I’ve been trying to keep tabs on what the war is costing us in dollars,” said the guy hesitantly. “I think it’s about $208 billion so far.”
“Value… $208 billion…,” said McSweeney as he wrote.
“Well, then there are the dead and wounded,” said the guy, almost apologizing. “I think it’s getting close to 1,700 Americans killed, and somewhere between 20,000 and 100,000 Iraqis.”
“That’s another department,” said McSweeney, looking up. “You’ll have to take that up with Homicide.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Friday, June 10, 2005
“Drivers’ Rights”
Patty and I had just finished paying some bills and were ready to head into “Agatha’s Ashtray,” the friendly little coffee shop which functions as the town’s communication center, when out rushed Darrin Godsey, almost bowling Patty over. “I’m running late,” he blurted out. “I’m trying to get this petition over to the newspaper office in time to make this week’s edition, and you got in my way.”
“Must be a pretty hot issue to get you all fired up like that,” I observed.
“Fired up?” he said. “Oh, you must mean the smoke trailing from my jacket and shoes. No, that’s just a little remnant from the air inside. It’ll blow away in a few minutes.”
“So what’s the petition about?” I asked.
“Drivers’ rights,” he said triumphantly. “It’s the new hot button issue for the angry white male!”
“Well, congratulations,” I said. “I thought maybe you were about to run out of personal rights issues.”
“Not likely,” he scoffed. “As long as mushheads keep trying to push regulations down our throat based on some silly notion like ‘the common good’ or ‘a shared space,’ there’ll always be a cause for me to champion.”
“I hate to confess my ignorance,” said Patty, “but what exactly is this ‘drivers’ rights’ issue?”
“The county’s trying to set speed limits on the roadways and eliminate drunken driving,” he said. “They claim it’s a public health issue. Have you ever heard of such a crazy thing? It’s not a health issue, it’s a freedom issue. We ought to be able to drive where we want, when we want, as fast as we want, in any condition we want. That’s what freedom is all about, and we’re ready to defend our freedom. ”
Patty looked at him as if she were examining something self-motivated that had just crawled out of a glass of lemonade. “What is it that you find controversial about those proposals?” she asked carefully. I gave her a warning look. Maybe I should have given it to Darrin. When Patty gets careful, it’s time to lower your windows, because manure and fan are about to meet.
“Hey!” yelled somebody from inside just then. “Would you mind closing the door? You’re letting the smoke out!”
“Sorry for the fresh air,” coughed Darrin, turning toward the complainer. “It was an accident.”
“You ought to know about accidents,” said Patty. “Wasn’t your aunt killed a few years back by a drunk driver on Rt. 5? And didn’t a speeding pickup ram your cousin’s motorcycle and paralyze him from the neck down?”
Darrin scoffed. “Could happen to anybody any time any place,” he said. “Those are acts of God. You have to look at the big picture. You need statistics—real statistics. You can’t trust government numbers on driving. They’re all bogus. Drunken driving and speeding are perfectly safe. Go to a source you can trust, like the Institute for Freedom in Motoring.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a front group for the Alcoholic Beverages Distributors Association?” asked Patty.
“It’s a private organization. Their funding sources are their own business,” said Darrin. “And their results are confirmed by the Motorists Liberty Forum.”
“I thought that was a front group for the National Association of Automobile Marketers,” said Patty.
“Are you going to discount the truth just because of who paid for it?” said Darrin disgustedly.
Just then Darrin’s wife came up with their two grandkids, Kayla and Kylie.
“Hey, Liz, what’d the doctor say?” asked Darrin.
“He said Kayla’s got another upper respiratory infection,” she said. “Kylie needed stronger medication for her asthma. I’m going to the pharmacy as soon as we’re done here. I promised them if they were good at the doctor’s, I’d buy them a dish of ice cream.”
Darrin dotes on those kids. “My treat,” he said. “What flavor do you want?”
“They didn’t hesitate. “I want Salem Light®!” said Kayla. “Winston® filters in the soft pack!” yelled Kylie.
Liz shook her head. “I’ve already told them twice,” she said. “You can’t tell what flavor your food’s going to be until you see who you’re sitting beside.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Must be a pretty hot issue to get you all fired up like that,” I observed.
“Fired up?” he said. “Oh, you must mean the smoke trailing from my jacket and shoes. No, that’s just a little remnant from the air inside. It’ll blow away in a few minutes.”
“So what’s the petition about?” I asked.
“Drivers’ rights,” he said triumphantly. “It’s the new hot button issue for the angry white male!”
“Well, congratulations,” I said. “I thought maybe you were about to run out of personal rights issues.”
“Not likely,” he scoffed. “As long as mushheads keep trying to push regulations down our throat based on some silly notion like ‘the common good’ or ‘a shared space,’ there’ll always be a cause for me to champion.”
“I hate to confess my ignorance,” said Patty, “but what exactly is this ‘drivers’ rights’ issue?”
“The county’s trying to set speed limits on the roadways and eliminate drunken driving,” he said. “They claim it’s a public health issue. Have you ever heard of such a crazy thing? It’s not a health issue, it’s a freedom issue. We ought to be able to drive where we want, when we want, as fast as we want, in any condition we want. That’s what freedom is all about, and we’re ready to defend our freedom. ”
Patty looked at him as if she were examining something self-motivated that had just crawled out of a glass of lemonade. “What is it that you find controversial about those proposals?” she asked carefully. I gave her a warning look. Maybe I should have given it to Darrin. When Patty gets careful, it’s time to lower your windows, because manure and fan are about to meet.
“Hey!” yelled somebody from inside just then. “Would you mind closing the door? You’re letting the smoke out!”
“Sorry for the fresh air,” coughed Darrin, turning toward the complainer. “It was an accident.”
“You ought to know about accidents,” said Patty. “Wasn’t your aunt killed a few years back by a drunk driver on Rt. 5? And didn’t a speeding pickup ram your cousin’s motorcycle and paralyze him from the neck down?”
Darrin scoffed. “Could happen to anybody any time any place,” he said. “Those are acts of God. You have to look at the big picture. You need statistics—real statistics. You can’t trust government numbers on driving. They’re all bogus. Drunken driving and speeding are perfectly safe. Go to a source you can trust, like the Institute for Freedom in Motoring.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a front group for the Alcoholic Beverages Distributors Association?” asked Patty.
“It’s a private organization. Their funding sources are their own business,” said Darrin. “And their results are confirmed by the Motorists Liberty Forum.”
“I thought that was a front group for the National Association of Automobile Marketers,” said Patty.
“Are you going to discount the truth just because of who paid for it?” said Darrin disgustedly.
Just then Darrin’s wife came up with their two grandkids, Kayla and Kylie.
“Hey, Liz, what’d the doctor say?” asked Darrin.
“He said Kayla’s got another upper respiratory infection,” she said. “Kylie needed stronger medication for her asthma. I’m going to the pharmacy as soon as we’re done here. I promised them if they were good at the doctor’s, I’d buy them a dish of ice cream.”
Darrin dotes on those kids. “My treat,” he said. “What flavor do you want?”
“They didn’t hesitate. “I want Salem Light®!” said Kayla. “Winston® filters in the soft pack!” yelled Kylie.
Liz shook her head. “I’ve already told them twice,” she said. “You can’t tell what flavor your food’s going to be until you see who you’re sitting beside.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
“Graduation Day”
“Morning, Uncle Sam,” I said. “Sure is a beautiful day!”
“Yep,” he agreed. “Hope this good weather holds out so they can hold graduation outside.”
“Is that country of yours graduating?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I sure hope so. But it’s touch and go. All he ever thinks about is sports. If you could dribble a textbook, he might know what one feels like.”
“How’re his grades?” I asked bluntly.
“Well,” he said, “he’s flunking history at the moment. You’d think after Vietnam, he’d have learned something about trying to put down an insurgency in a country where he doesn’t know the language, doesn’t know the culture, and everybody wants him out except the slick ones trying to piggyback into power. But you know how hard headed he is. He won’t listen to anybody. Calls anybody who tries to give him advice a ‘traitor’ or an ‘old fuddy-duddy.’”
“Surely if he just buckles down in that one course…,” I began.
His face flushed. “That’s just it. It’s not just history. He’s flunking science too.”
“Science?” I said. “I always thought he was good at science.”
“He was. It was probably his best field. But all of a sudden he’s insisting on using the Bible as his textbook for biology, anthropology, geology, astronomy, and physics, and he’s falling behind in all those courses.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Partly it’s that the courses include lots of things the Bible doesn’t cover,” said Uncle Sam. “It doesn’t even mention tectonic plates, for instance, or mitosis, or DNA, or quasars. But it’s also a matter of time frame. All of those sciences talk about processes operating over millions and billions of years, and he claims the whole universe is only a few thousand years old.”
“What are a few zeroes among friends?” I joked. “Nothing!”
He didn’t laugh. “I’m afraid it’s more fundamental than that. His teachers insist that science has to be founded on observation, experimentation, and verification. He argues that it has to be based on scripture and revelation.”
“And his teachers won’t see reason?” I asked.
“So far they’re insisting that their approach is about reason,” he said glumly.
“And English?”
“He’s gotten ‘F’ on almost everything he’s written so far this term, and last term as well.”
“How can that be?” I asked indignantly. “I thought that piece he wrote on Jessica Lynch was great! Lady Rambo—I loved it! I know he got an ‘A’ for that one. And his story on the dangerous rescue mission where we recaptured her! And that touching piece on Pat Tillman’s heroic death at the hands of a vicious foe. And that essay on weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. And his coverage of the toppling of Saddam Hussein’s statue. I could go on and on! They’re thrilling, they’re heartwarming….”
“They’re baloney. He made them all up, or staged them,” he said. “Every one of them. Deliberate lies to sell a dirty war.”
“Oh,” I said, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t,” he said. “The media played up his original stories, but they buried the follow-up stories when the truth began to come out.”
“So did he get to keep his original grades?”
“No, his teacher said that she was teaching a class on reporting, not on spinning. She got pretty upset about it.”
“Well,” I said, “I sure hope he manages to graduate.”
“At this point, I could care less if he graduates,” said Uncle Sam ruefully. “He’s old enough now, I’d just like to see him learn some manners and a little humility. Ever since he went through that growth spurt and became so much bigger and more powerful than anybody else in his class, he’s acted as if he can say or do whatever he wants.”
“You’re being too hard on him,” I said. “He’s still just a kid.”
“I’ve made enough excuses for him,” said Uncle Sam. “Don’t you start in on it too. He’s my flesh and blood, but he’s over two hundred years old now. He’s old enough to cut out that fightin’ and drinkin’ and cheatin’ and runnin’ all over the world and to start acting like an adult.”
“Good luck,” I said, and meant it.
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Yep,” he agreed. “Hope this good weather holds out so they can hold graduation outside.”
“Is that country of yours graduating?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I sure hope so. But it’s touch and go. All he ever thinks about is sports. If you could dribble a textbook, he might know what one feels like.”
“How’re his grades?” I asked bluntly.
“Well,” he said, “he’s flunking history at the moment. You’d think after Vietnam, he’d have learned something about trying to put down an insurgency in a country where he doesn’t know the language, doesn’t know the culture, and everybody wants him out except the slick ones trying to piggyback into power. But you know how hard headed he is. He won’t listen to anybody. Calls anybody who tries to give him advice a ‘traitor’ or an ‘old fuddy-duddy.’”
“Surely if he just buckles down in that one course…,” I began.
His face flushed. “That’s just it. It’s not just history. He’s flunking science too.”
“Science?” I said. “I always thought he was good at science.”
“He was. It was probably his best field. But all of a sudden he’s insisting on using the Bible as his textbook for biology, anthropology, geology, astronomy, and physics, and he’s falling behind in all those courses.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Partly it’s that the courses include lots of things the Bible doesn’t cover,” said Uncle Sam. “It doesn’t even mention tectonic plates, for instance, or mitosis, or DNA, or quasars. But it’s also a matter of time frame. All of those sciences talk about processes operating over millions and billions of years, and he claims the whole universe is only a few thousand years old.”
“What are a few zeroes among friends?” I joked. “Nothing!”
He didn’t laugh. “I’m afraid it’s more fundamental than that. His teachers insist that science has to be founded on observation, experimentation, and verification. He argues that it has to be based on scripture and revelation.”
“And his teachers won’t see reason?” I asked.
“So far they’re insisting that their approach is about reason,” he said glumly.
“And English?”
“He’s gotten ‘F’ on almost everything he’s written so far this term, and last term as well.”
“How can that be?” I asked indignantly. “I thought that piece he wrote on Jessica Lynch was great! Lady Rambo—I loved it! I know he got an ‘A’ for that one. And his story on the dangerous rescue mission where we recaptured her! And that touching piece on Pat Tillman’s heroic death at the hands of a vicious foe. And that essay on weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. And his coverage of the toppling of Saddam Hussein’s statue. I could go on and on! They’re thrilling, they’re heartwarming….”
“They’re baloney. He made them all up, or staged them,” he said. “Every one of them. Deliberate lies to sell a dirty war.”
“Oh,” I said, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t,” he said. “The media played up his original stories, but they buried the follow-up stories when the truth began to come out.”
“So did he get to keep his original grades?”
“No, his teacher said that she was teaching a class on reporting, not on spinning. She got pretty upset about it.”
“Well,” I said, “I sure hope he manages to graduate.”
“At this point, I could care less if he graduates,” said Uncle Sam ruefully. “He’s old enough now, I’d just like to see him learn some manners and a little humility. Ever since he went through that growth spurt and became so much bigger and more powerful than anybody else in his class, he’s acted as if he can say or do whatever he wants.”
“You’re being too hard on him,” I said. “He’s still just a kid.”
“I’ve made enough excuses for him,” said Uncle Sam. “Don’t you start in on it too. He’s my flesh and blood, but he’s over two hundred years old now. He’s old enough to cut out that fightin’ and drinkin’ and cheatin’ and runnin’ all over the world and to start acting like an adult.”
“Good luck,” I said, and meant it.
© Tony Russell, 2005
Saturday, January 15, 2005
“The Elephant, the Flag, and the Cross”
I felt somebody tap me on the shoulder when I was trying to find zinc tablets at the drugstore. When I looked up, there was Chet Basenback.
“Chester!” I said, sneezing. “My gosh, it’s good to see you. I haven’t seen you for – what, four or five years now?”
“More like ten,” he said. “The years are slipping away from you, Ace.”
“Like trying to hold on to greased tomcats,” I admitted, blowing my nose. “How’s your art career going, Chester?” Chet was one of those kids who never was on the right page at school, because he was constantly doodling in his notebook—an endless stream of automobiles, rocket ships, idealized women, and caricatures of the teachers.
“Pretty well,” he said. “I’ve been doing graphic design for the past few years, and the business has really taken off.”
“Good market for that sort of thing, is there?” I asked, curious, while wiping my nose on my sleeve.
“You’re darned tootin’,” he said. “For instance, I just got a new job from the Republican National Committee to design them a new emblem.”
“A new emblem?” I asked between coughs. “You mean they’re going to get rid of the elephant?”
“Oh, that elephant has to go,” scoffed Chet. “Come on, now, tell me, be honest. What do you think of whenever you see that pudgy pachyderm?”
“I don’t know. I guess it makes me think of bloated capitalism, of the rich and owner class getting fat off workers and the poor.”
“Sure,” he said. “That’s just a natural tie-in to the economic stance of the party. That’s why the elephant has to go. The RNC is looking for a new emblem that focuses on winning cultural issues, not losing economic issues.”
“I guess I can see why they would,” I said. “What direction are they going in?”
“I just happen to have a portfolio with me of the latest things I’ve worked up for them,” he said, reaching down and opening a flap. He drew out a handful of sketches and passed them over to me.
Leafing through them, I quickly realized they were variations on the same concept. “These are pretty catchy,” I said. “I just never would have thought of using the cross as a flagpole. I really like the way you have the flag unfurling in the breeze, and the way those curves contrast with the straight lines of the cross.”
“Actually, it was their idea,” said Chet. “I’m just trying to capture the spirit of the thing. They figure that in one swoop, they’ll have appropriated the two most potent images in the United States for the Republican Party.”
“Imagine having those all to yourself,” I marveled.
“Isn’t that great? It’s consistent with the idea of property rights and free enterprise.”
“I notice you don’t have Jesus hanging on any of them,” I observed.
“Well, no,” he said. “The administration prefers to keep the wounded and dying out of sight and out of mind. Bad associations. So we’re just going for the cross itself.”
“What’s this up at the top of this one here? Is that a halo?”
“What are you looking at?” he said, glancing over my shoulder. “Oh, I’m not done with that one yet. That’s a yellow ribbon. I still need to letter ‘Support Our Troops’ on it.”
“Say,” I said, as an idea struck me. “Have you ever thought of just painting red and white stripes around the cross, with a field of blue at the top, decorated with stars? It’d be better than having the flag attached. Patriotism would be superimposed right there on religion. They’d be one and the same thing.”
“I like your thinking,” he said. “Actually, I suggested that, but it seems another organization is already marketing those, and the RNC wanted a breath of fresh air.”
“Do we really need another stiff breeze?” I wheezed. “It’s cold enough to freeze eggs under hens as it is.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Chester!” I said, sneezing. “My gosh, it’s good to see you. I haven’t seen you for – what, four or five years now?”
“More like ten,” he said. “The years are slipping away from you, Ace.”
“Like trying to hold on to greased tomcats,” I admitted, blowing my nose. “How’s your art career going, Chester?” Chet was one of those kids who never was on the right page at school, because he was constantly doodling in his notebook—an endless stream of automobiles, rocket ships, idealized women, and caricatures of the teachers.
“Pretty well,” he said. “I’ve been doing graphic design for the past few years, and the business has really taken off.”
“Good market for that sort of thing, is there?” I asked, curious, while wiping my nose on my sleeve.
“You’re darned tootin’,” he said. “For instance, I just got a new job from the Republican National Committee to design them a new emblem.”
“A new emblem?” I asked between coughs. “You mean they’re going to get rid of the elephant?”
“Oh, that elephant has to go,” scoffed Chet. “Come on, now, tell me, be honest. What do you think of whenever you see that pudgy pachyderm?”
“I don’t know. I guess it makes me think of bloated capitalism, of the rich and owner class getting fat off workers and the poor.”
“Sure,” he said. “That’s just a natural tie-in to the economic stance of the party. That’s why the elephant has to go. The RNC is looking for a new emblem that focuses on winning cultural issues, not losing economic issues.”
“I guess I can see why they would,” I said. “What direction are they going in?”
“I just happen to have a portfolio with me of the latest things I’ve worked up for them,” he said, reaching down and opening a flap. He drew out a handful of sketches and passed them over to me.
Leafing through them, I quickly realized they were variations on the same concept. “These are pretty catchy,” I said. “I just never would have thought of using the cross as a flagpole. I really like the way you have the flag unfurling in the breeze, and the way those curves contrast with the straight lines of the cross.”
“Actually, it was their idea,” said Chet. “I’m just trying to capture the spirit of the thing. They figure that in one swoop, they’ll have appropriated the two most potent images in the United States for the Republican Party.”
“Imagine having those all to yourself,” I marveled.
“Isn’t that great? It’s consistent with the idea of property rights and free enterprise.”
“I notice you don’t have Jesus hanging on any of them,” I observed.
“Well, no,” he said. “The administration prefers to keep the wounded and dying out of sight and out of mind. Bad associations. So we’re just going for the cross itself.”
“What’s this up at the top of this one here? Is that a halo?”
“What are you looking at?” he said, glancing over my shoulder. “Oh, I’m not done with that one yet. That’s a yellow ribbon. I still need to letter ‘Support Our Troops’ on it.”
“Say,” I said, as an idea struck me. “Have you ever thought of just painting red and white stripes around the cross, with a field of blue at the top, decorated with stars? It’d be better than having the flag attached. Patriotism would be superimposed right there on religion. They’d be one and the same thing.”
“I like your thinking,” he said. “Actually, I suggested that, but it seems another organization is already marketing those, and the RNC wanted a breath of fresh air.”
“Do we really need another stiff breeze?” I wheezed. “It’s cold enough to freeze eggs under hens as it is.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
“Golden Calves and the Ballot Box”
I grew up in the Methodist Church. Some of my clearest memories of my boyhood are of sitting in Sunday School, listening to our teacher, Mr. Dolby, talk about the Bible stories that were the center of each week’s lesson, lessons spanning the Bible, from Genesis to Revelations.
In the New Testament, we learned how entering God’s kingdom meant a reversal of the old order, with blessings for the poor and the peacemakers. In the Old Testament, we learned how, time and again, the kings of the Israelites enticed their people to follow after false gods. We learned of those heroes of faith, the prophets, who risked everything by opposing the phony religion of the kings.
That Sunday School, that church community, and my family shaped the values I have tried to live by—a love that translates into responsibility for others (“Am I my brother’s keeper?”); a mistrust of earthly rulers, who lead their people to worship golden calves; and a skepticism that belief in a particular dogma determines whether you are one of the elect (“What does the Lord require of thee, but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God?”).
So I have been sickened by the way millions of good people have allowed their evangelical faith to be co-opted by the Republican party, sickened by the sight of well-intentioned people—people desirous of being faithful—following pastoral counsel that to be Christian is to vote Republican.
God doesn’t belong to any particular party. The Holy Spirit doesn’t register as a Republican or a Democrat, isn’t even pro-American. But there are particular themes that recur in the Bible, over and over and over again. And the theme the Bible sounds most is this: How do you treat the poor among you, the powerless, the widow, the orphan, the sick, the hungry, the outcast, the despised Samaritan? That, I would suggest, is the central test for a Christian to apply to a candidate or a policy—not whether the candidate attacks homosexuals or wears his faith on his sleeve.
Sojourners, the committed evangelical community headquartered in Washington, D.C., has called on political parties to stop using bad theology to exploit religion for partisan political purposes. To that end, they invite people to reconsider what constitutes “responsible Christian citizenship” and to sign the following petition. If you want to join the thousands who have already signed, go to www.sojo.net/petition.
* * * * *
We believe that poverty—caring for the poor and vulnerable—is a religious issue. Do the candidates budget and tax policies reward the rich or show compassion for poor families? Do their foreign policies include fair trade and debt cancellation for the poorest countries? (Matthew 25:35-40; Isaiah 10:1-2)
We believe that the environment—caring for God’s earth—is a religious issue. Do the candidates’ policies protect the creation or serve corporate interests that damage it? (Genesis 2:15; Psalm 24:1)
We believe that war—and our call to be peacemakers—is a religious issue. Do the candidates policies pursue “wars of choice” or respect international law and cooperation in responding to real global threats? (Matthew 5:9)
We believe that truth-telling is a religious issue. Do the candidates tell the truth in justifying war and in other foreign and domestic policies? (John 8:32)
We believe that human rights—respecting the image of God in every person—is a religious issue. How do the candidates propose to change the attitudes and policies that led to the abuse and torture of Iraqi prisoners? (Genesis 1:27)
We believe that our response to terrorism is a religious issue. Do the candidates adopt the dangerous language of righteous empire in the war on terrorism and confuse the roles of God, church, and nation? Do the candidates see evil only in our enemies but never in our own policies? (Matthew 6:33; Proverbs 8:12-13)
We believe that a consistent ethic of human life is a religious issue. Do the candidates’ postions on abortion, capital punishment, euthanasia, weapons of mass destruction, HIV/AIDS—and other pandemics—and genocide around the world obey the biblical injunction to choose life? (Deuteronomy 30:19)
© Tony Russell, 2004
In the New Testament, we learned how entering God’s kingdom meant a reversal of the old order, with blessings for the poor and the peacemakers. In the Old Testament, we learned how, time and again, the kings of the Israelites enticed their people to follow after false gods. We learned of those heroes of faith, the prophets, who risked everything by opposing the phony religion of the kings.
That Sunday School, that church community, and my family shaped the values I have tried to live by—a love that translates into responsibility for others (“Am I my brother’s keeper?”); a mistrust of earthly rulers, who lead their people to worship golden calves; and a skepticism that belief in a particular dogma determines whether you are one of the elect (“What does the Lord require of thee, but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God?”).
So I have been sickened by the way millions of good people have allowed their evangelical faith to be co-opted by the Republican party, sickened by the sight of well-intentioned people—people desirous of being faithful—following pastoral counsel that to be Christian is to vote Republican.
God doesn’t belong to any particular party. The Holy Spirit doesn’t register as a Republican or a Democrat, isn’t even pro-American. But there are particular themes that recur in the Bible, over and over and over again. And the theme the Bible sounds most is this: How do you treat the poor among you, the powerless, the widow, the orphan, the sick, the hungry, the outcast, the despised Samaritan? That, I would suggest, is the central test for a Christian to apply to a candidate or a policy—not whether the candidate attacks homosexuals or wears his faith on his sleeve.
Sojourners, the committed evangelical community headquartered in Washington, D.C., has called on political parties to stop using bad theology to exploit religion for partisan political purposes. To that end, they invite people to reconsider what constitutes “responsible Christian citizenship” and to sign the following petition. If you want to join the thousands who have already signed, go to www.sojo.net/petition.
* * * * *
We believe that poverty—caring for the poor and vulnerable—is a religious issue. Do the candidates budget and tax policies reward the rich or show compassion for poor families? Do their foreign policies include fair trade and debt cancellation for the poorest countries? (Matthew 25:35-40; Isaiah 10:1-2)
We believe that the environment—caring for God’s earth—is a religious issue. Do the candidates’ policies protect the creation or serve corporate interests that damage it? (Genesis 2:15; Psalm 24:1)
We believe that war—and our call to be peacemakers—is a religious issue. Do the candidates policies pursue “wars of choice” or respect international law and cooperation in responding to real global threats? (Matthew 5:9)
We believe that truth-telling is a religious issue. Do the candidates tell the truth in justifying war and in other foreign and domestic policies? (John 8:32)
We believe that human rights—respecting the image of God in every person—is a religious issue. How do the candidates propose to change the attitudes and policies that led to the abuse and torture of Iraqi prisoners? (Genesis 1:27)
We believe that our response to terrorism is a religious issue. Do the candidates adopt the dangerous language of righteous empire in the war on terrorism and confuse the roles of God, church, and nation? Do the candidates see evil only in our enemies but never in our own policies? (Matthew 6:33; Proverbs 8:12-13)
We believe that a consistent ethic of human life is a religious issue. Do the candidates’ postions on abortion, capital punishment, euthanasia, weapons of mass destruction, HIV/AIDS—and other pandemics—and genocide around the world obey the biblical injunction to choose life? (Deuteronomy 30:19)
© Tony Russell, 2004
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)