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probably read about the Mike Tyson-Lennox Lewis dust-up last week.
The boxers got together for a pre-fight press conference, but it
wasn’t much of a press conference, because they attacked each
other before they could take any questions.
In the course
of the fighting, Tyson bit Lewis in the leg. (You will recall that
Tyson is a biter; it’s one of his favorite forms of mutilation.)
Questioned about this afterward, a man in Tyson’s entourage
said, “I didn’t see no bite. Maybe Lewis bit himself.”
That’s
what gave me a chilling flashback. The flashback was to the Central
Park Jogger, the woman who was brutally gang-raped and beaten in
a “wilding” attack several years ago, in New York’s
bad old days (banished by Giuliani). (Now that he’s gone, who
knows?) The Rev. Al Sharpton and his followers repeatedly harassed
the victim in court. They alleged that her own boyfriend had done
this to her; in fact, they chanted outside the courthouse, “The
boyfriend did it! The boyfriend did it!” They also charged
— and this is almost unbelievable — that the victim had
done it: to herself.
The statement
of that Tyson sidekick triggered that awful memory. I have a feeling
it might be kind of a trope in thug circles: “He did it to
himself.” To talk about Sharpton and his antics is quite painful;
one problem with reciting them is that they seem scarcely believable.
I chronicled this in an
earlier piece for NR, when Democrats were trooping to
Sharpton for his blessing.
Sharpton does
indeed have a strange new respect. The new (nominally Republican)
mayor, Mike Bloomberg, showed up at Sharpton HQ for Martin Luther
King Day. I should have mentioned earlier that Sharpton compared
the attackers of the Central Park Jogger to the Scottsboro Boys
(who were innocent). And the reverend has never apologized for what
he did to Steve Pagones, the man he accused of raping Tawana Brawley
(a “rape” that never occurred).
That’s
Sharpton: He exonerates real rapists and falsely accuses others
of committing rapes that never took place.
One thing that
continually angers me is the sheer laziness of white politicians,
like Bloomberg. They regard these “black leaders” —
Sharpton, Jesse Jackson — as one-stop shopping: Drop by their
offices, have a few pictures taken, and you’ve done your duty
to “blacks.”
There are a
great many black Americans who are repulsed by the likes of Sharpton
and Jackson; of course, they’re called Toms and sell-outs by
the Sharptonites, but many of them have admirably thick skin, as
well as black skin. A white politician doesn’t have to stoop
to Sharpton to talk to “blacks.” Shame on Sharpton, of
course. But shame on Bloomberg, too.
This is another
thing that makes Rudolph Giuliani look pretty good: He had Sharpton’s
number. He knew what Sharpton was about. And that’s why he
refused to have anything to do with him.
You may have seen that both Sharpton and Jackson have rushed down
to Houston, to pose for pictures and agitate in front of Enron.
To call these two “ambulance-chasers” is almost a waste
of breath now. But aren’t they ever embarrassed? Aren’t
their supporters?
There has been a lot of gloating and glee over the demise of Talk
magazine. I, for one, hold no candle for it. A lot about that kind
of journalism — about Tina Brownism — bothers me. But
I think the rejoicing and kicking has been a little over the top.
You needn’t have embraced all of Talk, or all of Brownism,
to realize that the magazine produced many, many fine articles.
In every issue, you could find several good things to read. Not
necessarily elevating things, not necessarily immortal things, but
certainly entertaining or informative or worthwhile — and isn’t
that enough from a monthly general-interest magazine? I mean, let’s
be fair: We’re not offering the Harvard Classics here.
I, for one,
am sorry that Talk is gone. I happen to like pictures of
Gwyneth Paltrow. And where magazines are concerned — unless
they are truly pernicious — I say, the more the merrier.
Oh, yeah, and
one more thing: Sorry, Charlie, but Tina Brown saved The New
Yorker. Garrison Keillor and the rest of the old boys can cry
all they want, but she did.
You perhaps saw the profile of Glenn Loury in The New York Times
Sunday Magazine a couple of weekends ago (here’s the link).
Loury is a former conservative who is now back in the fold of black
left-liberals. The Times said that Loury had “come in
from the cold,” after a long season of “loneliness”
(among us right-wingers).
My purpose
here is not to chastise Loury. My impression is that he’s a
bit of a flake and a crybaby, but others have said that better and
more fully than I could. No, my purpose is to express, once more,
my awe at black conservatives who stick it out. After reading the
Times article — and noting how much better Loury’s
life has become, socially — I had a renewed admiration for
the prominent black thinkers, writers, and activists of the Right:
people like Thomas Sowell, Ward Connerly, and Shelby Steele. They
have to brave almost unbelievable, truly oppressive things. They
are, in some instances, pariahs, outcasts, called every name in
the book, spat on, despised as race traitors. (Remember how Christopher
Darden, the O.J. prosecutor, was booed in church?) Yet they hang
in there, stick it out, in the service of what they hold to be the
truth. They put principle and truth over career advancement and
social comfort.
I wonder whether
I could. I really do. Do you wonder whether you could, white
reader? These are awesomely brave men. I doubt we know even the
half of what they endure.
A reader reminded me of a bon mot from Ronald Reagan: “I’ve
noticed that everybody who’s for abortion has already been
born.” Reagan is a Bartlett’s unto himself.
Speaking of the Gipper: Remember how he spoke to the anti-abortion
activists outside the Supreme Court every year on the anniversary
of Roe v. Wade? He did so by a “live telephone
hook-up.” You’d always see these poor shivering bastards
— it was always late January, and very cold — listening
to this voice coming from somewhere, from some piece of equipment.
It was their leader, Reagan. The Gipper’d never show up in
person; he was always just the disembodied voice. But they seemed
to appreciate it, and it was better than a total snubbing, I suppose.
George W. Bush
is following that practice — speaking to the anti-abortion
folks like Charlie used to speak to his Angels on the television
show. (I can’t remember what H. W. did.) I’m sure that
pro-lifers appreciate the gesture. But isn’t it just a teeny,
tiny, eeny, beeny bit insulting?
My friend and colleague Mike Potemra noticed something pretty funny
the other day. He said, “Sometimes a typo can be meaningful.”
Consider the following typo, from National Journal’s
“Hotline”: “VP Cheney, on why all energy meeting
notes haven’t been released: ‘There’s an important
principal involved here.’”
Oooh.
I see that Terry McAuliffe, longtime Bill Clinton sidekick, money-man,
soulmate, and stooge, is scouting around for a place to hold the
Democratic convention in 2004. (Did I say he was now chairman of
the DNC?) He doesn’t want New York, because he wants a city
controlled by a Democratic mayor. (Nice to know that someone
regards Mike Bloomberg as a Republican.)
I remember
well McAuliffe at the 2000 convention in L.A. He was chairman of
the thing. Etched into my memory is a particular moment between
him and the president, Clinton. I was seated maybe 50 yards away.
You recall that Clinton made that long, disgusting, fascist-style
walk through the basement corridors of the building, eventually
emerging onto the platform. McAuliffe — “The Mac,”
as he calls himself (no kidding) — was there to greet him.
They did this kind of power-hug. It looked like kind of a ritual:
a quick hug and a bumping of chests. And then they turned to face
the cheering throng. It looked almost choreographed, like elementary-school
kids dreaming and preening and showing off. They were utterly drunk
on their own power, their own positions. It was a little like a
scene from Gladiator, with Clinton as the Emperor and The
Mac as a sort of Emperor-let.
It was very,
very human, mind you — I’m not saying it was more Democratic
than Republican. But it was revolting.
Just another
reminder that these power-drunkards had no business being near power.
Now a little story from Cuba. It doesn’t involve torture, but
it’s sort of interesting, and telling. Prominent in the peaceful
opposition is the Frank País November 30 Democratic party
(about which I’ll be writing more in future Impromptus). The
director of that party’s Center for Information on Democracy,
Guantanamo chapter, had a dangerous towel on the clothesline at
his home: It depicted the American flag. Upon seeing it, the neighborhood
Revolutionary Defense Committee (snitches) informed State Security
(Cuban Gestapo), who went to the oppositionist’s home and threatened
him. Castro-supporting neighbors gathered around and screamed obscenities
and Communist slogans at him, calling him, among other things, a
gusano, or worm, which is the name that the Communists give
to all who oppose the Castro regime. (It is also a name adopted
by Castro-supporting leftists in America and elsewhere. Go to any
of their meetings, or look at any of their literature, and you will
see this word gusano, used in reference to democracy and
human-rights supporters.)
Not the most
significant story out of Cuba — but interesting.
By the way,
I share with you a thought nicely expressed by a reader: “Isn’t
it remarkable that the ‘international community’ cares
more about terrorist prisoners held by the Americans in Cuba than
about the political prisoners held by Castro in Cuba?” It is:
except I would amend the statement to reflect that the “international
community” doesn’t care about Castro’s political
prisoners at all.
Last, I remind you of an item from the previous Impromptus about
James Earl Jones. A community in Florida was to honor the esteemed
actor on Martin Luther King Day. A plaque was prepared, but instead
of saying “James Earl Jones,” it said, “James Earl
Ray” — the name of Martin Luther King’s assassin.
(Certain members of the King family don’t accept that, but
that’s another story.)
A reader wrote,
“I once spent a day with James Earl Jones. He was in town doing
some PR appearances for Bell Atlantic (now Verizon). I’m a
commercial photographer, and I was hired to go around and cover
the events. At a school — an elementary school, I believe —
the principal introduced Mr. Jones as, you guessed it, ‘James
Earl Ray.’ Everybody cringed the biggest cringe imaginable,
but Mr. Jones didn’t flinch and just carried right on. I got
the feeling that happens to him a lot. James Earl Jones and
James Earl Ray are just one final syllable apart, and once the name
starts coming out, I think the brain just kinda does the last bit
on automatic. Do you remember when Jimmy Carter called Hubert Horatio
Humphrey, Hubert Horatio Hornblower?”
I do. And,
by the way, when I was boy, I was slightly confused, not only by
James Earl Jones and James Earl Ray, but by John Paul Jones. All
of those were in the mix for me.
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