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 ampaign-finance
reform is a-coming, and I have a message to the president: Actually,
before I give that message, I’d like to say that it is always
somewhat painful to type those words, “campaign-finance reform”
— so benign-sounding, so pure-seeming. Practically unassailable.
“Reform” is one of the most golden words in the English
political vocabulary, and to oppose “reform” is to be…well,
anti-reform, which is no good.
I have already complained in this space that only the campaign-finance
restrictionists get to be called “reformers.” Mitch McConnell
(for example) is a reformer — he advocates raising limits and
the like — but he never gets called a reformer, because the
kind of reform he favors is opposed by those who do most of the
commenting on the issue. McConnell is as much a reformer (or would-be
reformer) as his nemesis, John McCain — but only one of them
is blessed with the golden name, for obvious reasons. Language is
absolutely critical in this debate, as it is in most areas of life.
If McCain-style reform — restrictionism — were known popularly
as, say, “a clampdown on political speech,” perhaps it
wouldn’t be so popular.
Anyway, that message to the president: Show some sac, baby! Veto
this awful bill. Don’t hope that the courts will strike it
down. If you know it’s wrong — and you should — strike
it down yourself, with your veto pen. Let the political chips fall
where they may. The press will holler like crazy, McCain will holler
like crazy — and he may even use your veto as an excuse to
run against you in 2004. But you always said, during the 2000 campaign,
that you were “runnin’ for a reason” — namely,
to do the right thing while in office. Here is a fine opportunity.
And if you explain yourself, you could come out ahead, politically
— which is, of course, secondary.
As I was studying the restrictionist bills — their prohibitions
on ads; their exemptions for media companies; the harsh regulatory
controls they impose; their chilling effect (remember that one?)
generally — a word came to me, completely unbidden. It is a
word I have never used, to my knowledge, except in discussion about
the McCarthy period. It is a radioactive word, one that we are taught
never, ever to use (except, again, in the context of McCarthyism):
It is the U-word, “un-American.” I choke to utter this
forbidden word, but it seems appropriate: This clampdown on political
speech has an un-American smell, as it cuts against the spirit (at
a minimum) of American politics.
And the kicker, of course, is that the restrictionists present themselves
as super-patriots, always implying — and sometimes outright
saying — that we who disagree with them are not patriotic,
having something other than the best interests of the country at
heart.
Gloves off, y’all: If the anti-restrictionists were as forceful,
brazen, and unabashed in their rhetoric and tactics as the restrictionists,
this contest would be won in a walk. The weird thing is, the anti-restrictionists
— the pro-speechers, if you will — are on the defensive.
And they have no need to be. Let the amenders of the First Amendment
be the ones who are defensive, who tremble.
 I am
aware of doing something in the above item that I usually disdain:
addressing someone not present, or listening, in the second person,
as in, “Mr. President, you need to…” Walter Mondale
did this all through the 1984 campaign, and it grated on me. Mr.
President, Mondale would say, this country wasn’t built
on your weapons of war. It was built on the sweat of working people
(or something like that). At every stop, he twanged in that Minnesota
accent — or at least it seemed to me a kind of twang —
“Mr. President, Mr. President”: and then he’d dare
him to do something, or not do something. And Reagan wouldn’t
respond, of course, because he wasn’t there, so he seemed a
little cowardly, or incapable of answering. I always thought this
a cheap and unmanly rhetorical device.
But
now that I’m in the habit: Mr. President, next time you turn
down an invitation from the NAACP, please don’t mumble something
about a scheduling conflict. Just say, “No, you’re a hate
group, and that’s why I’m not addressing you. The president
doesn’t speak to hate groups, except to condemn them.”
Okay, maybe you can’t say just that, but you can make it clear
that the NAACP no longer does any good. It’s bad enough that
the group is wrong on the issues: wrong on education, “the
family,” taxation, and “right on down the line” (as
congressmen like to say). Their positions tend to impede the progress
of black Americans, and therefore of all Americans.
But that’s not their worst fault, to be dead wrong on the issues:
No, as they proved in the last campaign, they are haters, and deserve
to be seen as such, and to be banished to the fringes of our politics.
To tell the NAACP to get lost would be to clear the air. And it
would give a gust of encouragement to those Americans, both black
and white, but especially black, who long for an honest discussion,
and for the progress such intercommunication can bring.
So, next time, don’t say, “I’m busy,” say, “No.”
Just say no, as a Lady once said.
President
Bush (I am back to a proper voice) had a nifty event at Ellis Island
the other day, with such immigrants as Mel Martinez, Elaine Chao,
and Viet Dinh standing next to him. He also had the New York senators,
but this event was hard to mar. In his remarks, Bush said, “Immigration
is not a problem to be solved. It is a sign of a confident and successful
nation.” And newcomers “should be met in that spirit by
representatives of our government.”
Leave aside, for a moment, the debate over immigration policy, and
indulge me in a flashback of mine: I accompany a friend (Indian-born)
to an INS center in Detroit, where he is to take a step (or two)
in obtaining his citizenship. In fact, I think his purpose that
day was to complete the final step of the entire process.
In the building were bright, hopeful immigrants, would-be Americans,
in their Sunday best, some clutching flags, with several generations
of the family, all very nervous, of course — and the women
behind the glass (I’m talking about the American clerks) were
all beastly to them. For an hour I observed this, and it was disgusting.
The clerks were beyond snappish and rude; they were mean and snarling,
alternately ignoring and yelling at the immigrants. The immigrants
were jittery and shaken — sometimes a little teary — wanting
to do the right thing. When the immigrants could get the clerks’
attention, those clerks would mumble something, behind that glass.
The immigrants wouldn’t be able to understand them, of course
— I, with my native English, couldn’t understand
them — and they said, meekly, “Pardon?” And then
the clerks would scream at them, as incomprehensibly as they had
mumbled. The immigrants were in a state of confusion and fear. The
clerks seemed to hold so much power over them, and they were full
of hate, just brutalizing those people — who had arrived so
eager and happy.
I wanted to cry, to aid the immigrants, to apologize to them, to
curse and report the “Americans” who were mistreating
them. If I were the type to be ashamed to be an American, I would
have been. It was one of the most disgusting — I return to
that word — most disgusting, most repellent spectacles I have
ever witnessed.
My friend and I simply left. He would try another day, elsewhere,
I think — Chicago, maybe. The inhospitality, cruelty, and —
here I go again — un-Americanness of it all was too much to
bear, and I cringe to remember it even now.
At
the time of the Clinton pardons scandal — I mean, when people
were interested in it — many of the headlines read, “Isn’t
It Rich?” (you remember Denise). Well, isn’t it rich that
prominent Senate Democrats have expressed concern for the military
because of the Bush tax cut? You see, that irresponsible commander-in-chief
cut taxes for the rich and greedy, so now our military just may
be underfunded. Tsk-tsk. You know those hawks like Carl Levin: always
looking out for the mad bombers in the Pentagon.
As New York tabloidists sometimes write: Puh-leeze.
I may
be the last right-wing bloviator in America not to comment on the
TV series West Wing (for which you can thank me). That is
because I haven’t seen it; or hadn’t seen it, because
I caught a snippet — about five minutes — the other night
when the missus had it on. What I saw, and heard, simply stunned
me. I was prepared for something bad, from all that I had read;
but I was not prepared for what the show apparently is.
Here is my comment (and I will make it short): I had to despair
a little, because, no matter how many National Reviews and
Weekly Standards and Wall Street Journals we publish,
how can we compete with that television show? How? The propagandizing
power of that hour has to be enormous. The Democratic National Committee
couldn’t possibly ask for better. I would trade all of our
piddly yet noble organs for a television show of that sort —
hell, Bob Dornan could be elected president in such an atmosphere.
Speaking
of unusual candidates: It is bruited about in Michigan that one
Michael Skupin, once a contestant on Survivor, will be the
Republican nominee against Sen. Levin next year. Before you laugh,
or sigh, let me report that a friend of mine heard Skupin speak
the other day, in a church. He said Skupin had great appeal, being
handsome, plainspoken, and compelling. He could catch on, my friend
mused, with a grassroots, regular-guy, Jesse Ventura-like campaign.
(Now, I realize there’s not much regular about Jesse, with
his feather boa and jewelry and all, but you know what I mean.)
Hang on, has anyone made this point? They must’ve: What is
it with our politicians named Jesse (Helms, Ventura, Jackson, in
descending order of greatness)? Is there an ordinary politician
named Jesse? Can’t think of one — and out West, there
was that Jesse James.
No, the Wagnerian tenor Jess Thomas doesn’t count, if that’s
what you’re thinking.
Hang on again, please: When I first met my marvelous colleague Mike
Potemra, way back in academic-grove days, he propounded the “Jacksonian
theory of the Democratic party”: that it had gone from Andrew
Jackson to Scoop Jackson to Jesse Jackson. I have never forgotten
that, as one usually does not, when Mr. P. has spoken.
Y’all
saw, via Drudge, probably, that the Communist Party, U.S.A., held
its annual convention in Milwaukee — and that the city’s
mayor sent a letter to the delegates. This letter, according to
the local paper, “touted Milwaukee’s socialist history.”
Wrote Mayor John O. Norquist, “In that sense, we share many
things in common with the long history of the Communist Party and
all those engaged in the fight for a decent life for working people.”
The letter was read by an aide. The Communists gave the mayor a
standing ovation, in absentia.
This is funny, of course, but it is not funny, considering the damage
that ignorance of Communism has done to us. About a year ago, a
mayor in California apologized to a PRC consulate for approving
a local “Falun Gong Day” — not realizing that the
viciously persecuted sect is “controversial.” If there
were a Mayors Hall of Shame, I could supply two candidates, easy.
In
a recent (and excellent) New York Times piece about the Russian
writer Isaac Babel, the word “Stalinist” was used quite
a bit: Stalinist terror, the Stalinist secret police, Stalinist
policy, etc. This put me in mind of a pet point: “Stalinist”
— and “Maoist” — can amount to a lexical and
moral dodge. Now, I fully appreciate the horrible specialness of
Stalin’s Communism, as I do the horrible specialness of Mao’s.
But in my experience, “Stalinist” and “Maoist”
are often used by those who are loath to acknowledge the general
awfulness of Communism, tout court. “Stalinism”
has long been used by people who want to imply a sharp departure
from the Soviet Communism launched by Lenin. “Stalinist”
and “Maoist” are often fallback words for those practicing
some kind of apologetics for Communism. That is why I, when in school,
liked to avoid those terms, sometimes mischievously; I was reluctant
to draw responsibility away from Communism and its supporters and
enforcers, and to separate Stalin and Mao and their rules from Communism
at large. Those two men, certainly, thought of themselves as very
incarnations of Communism.
So, the “Stalinists” and “Maoists”? Communists
all, remember — insist on it, when you think it is right.
Since
the End of the Cold War, whole months have gone by when the
average right-winger has forgotten to hate the U.N. But I remembered
— I was jolted awake — when the U.N. lied about that videotape
from southern Lebanon, then refused to cough it up to the Israelis
who could use it to find and rescue their kidnapped men. The United
Nations remains — hey, this might make a title for a book —
a dangerous place.
I mentioned
mischief a moment ago; let me offer a little more. The Department
of Justice is apparently set to say that it believes the Second
Amendment applies to individuals, not merely to state militias (you
didn’t know the question was open?). Here is my mischief: When
speaking of gun rights, you may want to mention “the Bill of
Rights.” There is a glorious phrase — almost as golden
and unassailable as “campaign-finance reform.” Your opponents
will tag you as a “gun nut”; you will reply that you are
but the humble upholder of the Bill of Rights. The last thing an
anti-gun nut wants to think of is that gun ownership is enshrined
in the Bill of Rights, for heaven’s sake. “Bill
of Rights” does even better than “the Second Amendment”
or “the Constitution.” Ear- and psyche-wise, it is very
potent.
As I admitted, a bit of mischief.
For
some time, I have been noticing that writers — particularly
political journalists — overdo, and misuse, “self-interest.”
We are apt to read the sentence, “It is in his self-interest.”
There is no need for that “self-”: It is in his interest.
(The man’s interest, naturally, is a self-interest; that’s
why it’s his.) Often, we read a worse sentence: “It is
in his own self-interest.” That’s really driving the point
home! This is a sloppy and annoying way of writing, and speaking;
the “self-interest” weed has spread too far. Remember:
You may praise a man who eschews self-interest, but you certainly
understand when he acts on his interest — no need for the tic
of “self-.”
Stay
with language for a sec: When you write “W.,” as in our
president, not his father, the former president, do you use the
period or not? I noticed the other day that the Wall Street Journal
does not (as in its headline, over an editorial on Bush’s immigration
stance, “Citizen W”). I say: Use the period. It is helpful
in denoting that this is the president’s middle initial. It
preserves the feeling of that initial. Kissinger is sometimes referred
to as “K” — no period. But if the old diplomat went
by his middle initial, à la W., we would, or should, refer to him
as “A.” — with that period.
I am very much for retaining the period in the president’s
nickname — a nickname that happens to be indispensable in the
writing we do — but the tide is the other way. Making me a
period piece, I guess.
A little
trouble in the golf world, down under. When Tiger Woods goes abroad
— for some chump event — he does it for big money, known
in the business as “appearance money.” That’s money
for just showing up, forgetting what prize money you (meaning Tiger)
might win.
Well, the New Zealanders have paid Tiger $2 million to appear next
year in its Open, and the price of a weeklong ticket to the event
has gone from a modest $20.50 to an immodest $205. As a result,
New Zealand golf star Michael Campbell is threatening to boycott
the event, in solidarity with his homeboys, particularly the more
penurious among them. He called the ticket hike a “gross insult”
to fans.
Tige (pronounced with a hard “g,” of course) is in a bit
of a bind here: He is obeying the law of market economics, but he
is set up to look like a Scrooge, denying urchins a chance to see
him. Of course, New Zealanders may show up in huge, unprecedented
numbers, for the rare chance of seeing the greatest golfer of all
time. Tournament organizers paid Woods $2 million for a reason;
they surely know their interests. In my view, Campbell should stop
sniffing and playing to the gallery, and kiss Tiger’s feet
for making his game wildly more popular than ever, which has led
to immensely larger purses for all golfers, including one Michael
Campbell, hero of the Common Kiwi.
Because
the missus is one of New York’s leading restaurant and food
columnists, I have to go to a lot of swank restaurants, to be force-fed
multi-course meals, which take hours, which makes your body sore
because (in addition to the overeating) the chairs get uncomfortable.
But that’s not what I want to complain about (although I thank
you for your sympathy). In fact, I don’t want to complain at
all, but to observe something: Even in the very swankest restaurants,
the bathrooms have signs that say, “Employees Must Wash Hands
Before Returning to Work” (or some such thing). (By the way,
the bathrooms in swank restaurants are, of course, commensurately
swank — some of them look like they could belong to the Gabor
sisters.) I got to thinking about those signs the other night. I
might understand such a reminder in a Burger King or Denny’s
(although isn’t this kind of classist?); but in these posh
and elegant places? Shouldn’t we worry a little about a restaurant
that has to admonish its employees publicly to wash their hands
after using the facilities? Couldn’t that — you know —
kinda go without saying?
Which made me wonder whether these signs have to be posted,
by regulation. They are probably meant to be reassuring — but
they’re not, necessarily. And they must be a humiliation to
the employees.
Peace out.
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