A chilling flashback, of whom I am in awe, “The Mac,” &c.

January 28, 2002 9:00 a.m.

ou 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.