A Glimpse of Glory, A Touch of Grace

Sitting in the Tir Na Nog in Union Square, Somerville, on a recent Wednesday evening, watching the Red Sox game on a huge projection screen, I noticed that NESN, the New England Sports Network, was looking for stories from fans about their Red Sox experience. I remembered a story I wrote some years ago and thought I might send it in. I did so today and then thought I might as well post it here. I'd sent it off once to see if anyone in Boston might be interested in publishing it, but no one was. Still, it's a good story, about a time of innocence and hope, before 9/11, the nightmare of Iraq, and the election of America's woefully inept boy president.

Larry

A Day at Fenway

We got up about 10 o’clock and decided to walk over to Fenway Park. It was Saturday morning and Devon, my eleven-year-old son, had arrived from the Cape the night before. Like his dad, he loved baseball. The Sox had a game against the Twins at 1 o’clock, and I had noticed an ad on TV, as Devon and I watched the Sox play Friday night, saying the Sox would have $6.00 grand stand seats and $4.00 bleacher seats available for the game. When we got to the stadium, I was told at the ticket office that this was only for Little League ball players “in uniform” and their families. I asked how much two bleacher seats would be and was told $18.00, but then was asked if Devon was my son and offered two grand stand seats on the left-field line for $21.00, a “family” rate. I bought the tickets.

Never having sat on the left-field side of Fenway Park, finding our seats was an adventure and a treat. It seemed to me that there was not a bad seat in the house on the left-field side. (If you’ve ever sat in the bleachers or on the right-field grand stands at Fenway, you’ll understand.) Our seats were about half way up in the grand stands (Section 30) near where the seating juts out into left field. Devon wanted to go down near the field to see if he could get an autograph from one of the Twins players who were warming up in the outfield. It proved to be a fruitless endeavor, although Paul Molitar was kind enough to chat briefly with Devon when all of the other players--”Chuck Knoblaoch is a jerk, Dad”--simply ignored his entreaties. While Devon was seeking autographs, he got to know a man and his son sitting in the front row of seats who told him the two seats behind him and his son were his and Devon and I were welcome to sit there if we liked. We did.

Devon had brought several baseball cards to the game with him. In plastic cases he had Mike Greenwell, Mo Vaughn, and Tim Naehring’s rookie card. Tim Naehring was playing third base and Devon decided to see if he could get Naehring’s attention and get him to sign his rookie card between innings. He’d call out to Naehring while Tim took ground balls and hold up the rookie card and Naehring would sometimes shake his head and move his lips as if to say, “I can’t do it now” to Devon. Still, Devon called out to him between every inning, hoping Tim might at least come over at the end of the game and sign his card. Didn’t happen. At the end of the game (which the Sox won), Tim Naehring headed into the locker room and did not look back.

After the game, Devon wanted to hang out around Fenway and look at baseball cards and maybe catch sight of a real live ballplayer and get an autograph. When we had first walked over to the stadium, we had seen Troy O’Leary, the Red Sox outfielder, standing in the parking lot where the players park (we did not know this then). He may have been talking with his wife. Anyway, Devon wanted to get his autograph but did not have anything for him to sign, so he quickly ran over to a table the player’s wives had set up to collect donations for a food drive they were conducting outside the ballpark. By the time Devon got back to where Troy’d been, Troy was gone. Disappointing, but, hey, these things happen.

We walked over to Kenmore Square, so I could get a cup of coffee. On the way, we came upon a young woman passing out free sample cans of Snapple and she gave Devon a can of his favorite Snapple Iced Tea. “Snapple’s my favorite, Dad. Do you think this is okay to drink?” he asked, before popping the cold can open. We went into Au Bon Pain in Kenmore Square. I had a large iced coffee and Devon had an onion bagel, toasted with cream cheese. He was feeling pretty content and pleased, putting his feet up and commenting on how neat it was to be sitting and eating a bagel with cream cheese so near to Fenway Park. He finished his bagel and we headed back to the park.

The crowds had begun to arrive for the 6 o’clock game. The gates were shut and the streets were full of vendors, fans, and one group of Teamsters picketing a local bar with a huge banner: “This buds not for you!” stretched across the road. Devon got a sticker declaring the teamsters’ sentiment and immediately stuck it on his shirt. We walked down the street behind the Green Monster and around the ball park, coming to the area I suddenly realized really was the place from which the players would exit at the end of the game. Frank White, then the Red Sox first-base coach and former Kansas City second baseman, was standing inside the fence and Devon (although he was not sure who Frank White was), seeing the man’s uniform, asked him for his autograph. He graciously gave it and told Devon the other players might sign autographs at the end of the game but, then again, probably would not. But Devon had his first autograph. We went on around the ballpark, to where the wives had their table set up and most of the card vendors had set up shop. The wives were not at the tables but the tables were being manned by a group of guys from a Brockton Drug and Alcohol Rehab Program. They said the wives might arrive later, were in fact expected. Devon had this plan, you see: Perhaps one of the wives could help him get an autograph?

We walked around in search of adventure. Devon studiously looked at the baseball cards available, the photographs, the sunglasses--”Dad,” says Devon, talking without moving his lips, “that guy does not move his lips when he talks”--the baseball caps--”Dad, that hat is only $10.00”--a good price--”That’s a good price”--and all of the people milling about, slowly filling up the street. Devon asks a woman at a table if she is one of the wives. She isn’t. None are present (and none ever show). We walk back down near the players’ parking area and Devon asks the guys at the food-drive table if he can help. They do not encourage him but the next thing I know (I’m sitting atop a fire-hydrant, having given myself over to letting Devon have his day at Fenway and keeping an eye on him) he is walking around shouting, “Somebody’s hungry! Somebody needs your help today! It does not matter what you give! Everything helps! Every little bit helps! Help us out today! Somebody’s hungry!” He has picked up the chant from a young man who has been working the crowd all afternoon, seeking donations for the food drive. I find Devon’s participation amusing and attractive. I admire his willingness and lack of self-consciousness. One of the guys at the table offers him a cold can of Cherry Soda (he accepts, it’s a hot day), another offers a bag of chips. He declines. “Not now,” he says, “But thank you anyway.” He does his work, calling out among the other voices, thanking people who drop off bags of food at the table or give coins. I watch in amazement. Delighted by what I see, glad to be able to see it.

Someone comes out from inside the stadium and asks Devon if he would like to go to the game. “Would you like tickets to tonight’s game?” “Well, yes,” says Devon, “I’m here with my dad and we went to the first game and we can’t afford tickets to another game.” “Let me see what I can do,” says the man and goes off in the direction of the ticket office. Devon goes back to his work. The man comes back in about ten minutes and hands me two tickets to the game. “There not together,” he says, “but they are good seats in the Grand Stands on the right-field line.” I thank him and show the tickets to Devon. He says thank you and goes back to work. One of the guys at the table comes over to me and asks, “Didn’t he hear me say he was in line for some tickets?” “No,” I say, “I don’t think so, but it is great that he got the tickets. He wasn’t helping out for a reward. He just wanted to help.” “I told him he would be blessed,” says the man, “and guess this is his blessing.” “I guess it is,” I say.

Devon and I headed into Fenway just as the game was beginning. Going in search of our seats, I noted one was in Section 10 and one in Section 11. I would seat Devon in 11 and go to 10 and watch him. But there were several empty seats in 11. I asked if anyone was sitting in them and, as no one was, we sat down together. Devon said he wanted to go down to the Red Sox dugout and see if he could see the players. He said he would come right back. I kept an eye on him as he made his way through the box seats to the dugout area, where he could lean over the photographers’ box and peek in.

When he returns, he has news of two empty seats behind the dugout, where two young men sitting in a row of four seats have told him no one is sitting. We can sit there if we like, he says, so off we move, into two more rather special seats located (I have to say) by Devon’s unerring intuition and Saturday’s magic.

During the game (which the Sox lose 6 to 0), Devon goes down to the dugout in between innings and looks in. Around the fifth inning, he comes back with the news that he has seen Tim Naehring. “He did one of those cartoon looks, dad. He looked over. He looked away, and then he looked back very quickly and made a face.” “He was probably very surprised to see you--this little boy who shouted at him and held up his rookie card during the first game,” I said. “He probably thinks I’m stalking him, dad.” “Maybe,” I say, “he’ll come out of the dugout after the game and give you his autograph.” Faint hope. Naehring wasn’t in the line-up for the second game.

Our original plan had been to walk home after the 6 o’clock game started, watch it on TV, and (if it was not too late) return to the players’ parking area and see if Devon could get an autograph. Now we were at the game and I could see we were likely to be hanging out when it was over.

At the end of the game, we walk out of Fenway and head toward the parking area where we have discovered the players park their cars. We stop where there is an opening--a tear--in the fabric hanging behind the fence. A doorway is on the other side of the parking lot; it is open and we can see into it. A ramp leads in and down a yellow corridor where a lone (empty) red chair stands. It is the door the players use to get into and out of Fenway. If Tim Naehring is in there, he’ll have to come up that ramp and out that door. Devon stands there with his pen. I edge a little away from the tear in the screen, not knowing what to expect.

We stood there for about twenty minutes, with a group of about a dozen people, several of whom were hoping to get autographs, and one woman (there with her teenage daughter) who seemed to want nothing more than a glimpse of Tim Naehring--”He is such a hunk! He is so hot!” Someone came up the ramp and out the door. “It’s Mike Stanley, dad, he’s my favorite player!” Mike did not approach the fence but walked off through the parking lot. Devon was off like a shot, hoping to catch him. I watched him go. He came running back a few minutes later. “What happened? Get an autograph?” “No.” “Where’d he go?” “To his car, I guess.” “Must have had a date.” We settled back to wait.

In short order, players and coaches begin coming out the door. Mo Vaughn emerges. Lots of shouts, “How about an autograph, Mo?” “Not tonight guys.” And Mo is gone. Tim Wakefield. No response. Mike Greenwell. “It’s been a long day guys.” He’d struck out to end the game and could not have been feeling too good. Other players hurry out. Stan Belinda comes out with is wife. He is carrying a child, and his car is very close to the fence. He has to come very close to the fence to get into his car. The questions begin: “Can you sign an autograph, Mr. Belinda?” “Got time for an autograph?” No response. “Can you ignore me, Mr. Belinda?” someone asks. Stan Belinda hears. “I’ve got a baby in my hands. What do you want? A baby or an autograph?” He is not pleased. He secures the baby in the car and comes over to the fence. He reaches for Devon’s pen and, as Devon pushes a piece of paper (which Frank White had signed earlier in the day) through the fence, takes it in his hand. Belinda tries to sign his autograph but the pen doesn’t work. He thrusts the pen and paper back at Devon, apologizes for having to hurry, and he is off. Bummer. But Devon is well prepared and does not seem upset. He has another pen.

Jim Rice, Boston’s great left-fielder and current batting coach, comes out. The shouting begins again. I am feeling very tense. These ball players seem very high-strung, like thoroughbreds (no disrespect intended) ready to bolt at the slightest noise. “Got time for an autograph, Mr. Rice?” “Can you sign an autograph, Mr. Rice?” “The question isn’t, can I?” says Jim, “but will I?” He sounds angry, but he comes over to the fence and gives Devon his autograph. That is it. No one else. “Thank you, Jim” I say, and he is off. Other players come out. Some we know; some we don’t. All avoid the fence, hurrying away, as if the fence were dangerous.

The game has now been over for quite a while. Forty-five minutes, an hour. Most of the bystanders are gone. Lights are going out in the stadium. We’ll be heading home soon, I am sure, without Tim Naehring’s autograph, but I do not say anything to Devon. I’d said earlier in the evening that Naehring might not even be in the locker room. “He may have left early, since he did not play in the game.” It made sense to me. How much longer should we wait? Most everyone else is gone. Why wait? Why hope? Why expect? It is going on ten o’clock. We have been at Fenway for close to twelve hours.

Someone steps into the light pouring out of the door. He walks slowly up the ramp. A big guy. Broad shouldered and muscular. “It’s him, dad,” says Devon, “It’s Tim Naehring.” “It is?” I say, turning to look, as if I had not already seen him. It is Tim Naehring, I can see, appearing before us like a mythical figure. A god, made flesh, is walking towards us, mounting the ramp to the parking lot. “Can I get your autograph, Tim?” asks Devon. Tim Naehring seems to flinch and take a little stagger-step, as if he’s just been hit by something. Not hard, but just enough to stop him for a second. He sees this little boy standing there outside the fence, right in front of him, the baseball cap on backwards Ken Griffey, Jr. style, the same little boy who’d been calling out to him between innings--hours ago, when the sun was high--during the first game when he’d been playing third base, the little boy who’d caused him to do a double-take during the second game when he looked out of the dugout--there he stood, the same little boy.

Tim Naehring walks slowly over to the fence. It is dark and very late. “Can I get your autograph, Mr. Naehring?” Devon asks. “Sure,” says Tim, reaching out and taking Devon’s pen in his hand. Devon begins to tremble. “I’ve got your rookie card. Could you sign it for me? I’ve got to get it out of this cover.” Devon stands there desperately trying to get the card out of the clear plastic case he keeps it in. His fingers are shaking. I keep waiting for Tim to bolt, praying he won’t. Finally, Devon has the card in his hand and hands it to Tim. Tim takes it, steps back (I think to catch a bit of light, so he can see to sign the card), and raises the pen. He signs the card and hands it carefully back to Devon. “Thank you, Tim,” says Devon. “Thank you, Tim,” I say. Someone pushes a program through the fence. Tim takes it and, using Devon’s pen, signs it. He hands Devon’s pen back through the fence. “I’m sorry if I was bugging you today,” says Devon, apologizing for having called out to him all day. “Don’t worry about it, kid, it’s okay.” And Tim Naehring turns and is gone, disappearing into the shadows, as you’d expect a super hero to do.

Devon and I set off for home, walking to my place in the Back Bay. “That’s all I really wanted, dad,” says Devon, as we walk in the shadows of Fenway Park. “I know,” I say, not quite believing this has really happened. “Let me see that,” I say. Devon hands the card to me. It is now securely back in its plastic case. “Tim Naehring” it says, written so neatly and so clearly that it looks fake, but we know it isn’t. We watched Tim sign it. I cannot believe it. Thanks, Tim, you made my day, and you certainly made Devon’s. It was a long day, for you, for me, for “Greenie”, but it ended perfectly, as any day may, with a glimpse of glory and a touch of grace. Baseball is like that.

Seeing Real Gold Where Only Fool's Gold Exists

A friend sent around a piece by Mark Steyn entitled The Arabs' Berlin Wall Has Crumbled, which I read and responded to by clipping a quote out of a TomDispatch piece by Ray McGovern.

Ah, Democracy, in the Middle East, no less! "...One needs to go back at least to 1953 when the U.S. and Great Britain overthrew Iran's democratically elected Premier Mohammad Mossadeq as part of a plan to insure access to Iranian oil. They then emplaced the young Shah in power who, with his notorious secret police, proved second to none in cruelty."

A question came flying back at me: "What would have to happen for Larry Dobie to exclaim: 'In the wake of this brutal, unjustified war, launched by the Boy and his junta in Washington, there are some amazing, positive developments taking place in The Middle East'?" Like Mark Steyn's self-congratulatory, triumphal piece aimed at anyone and everyone who did not and does not share his murderous agenda, I was being accused of not appreciating some current events recently given much play in the media as evidence of the success of the boy Bush's push into Iraq under the pretense of protecting America from Weapons of Mass Destruction and the threat of Al Qaeda, big lies designed to justify the use of the American armed forces to gain control of Iraqi oil fields.

I simply couldn't see anything to get excited about, though I realized I was going against the grain and the currently accepted press "script" by not jumping on the bandwagon that just left the building, all decked out in red, white, and blue bunting and designed to sell yet more people on the goodness of America's intent in the Middle East. For me, there would have to be some "amazing, positive developments taking place", not desperate, disingenuous cheers going up from those with blood on their hands who think the ends will justify the means, celebrating the resurrection of that which they have been so comfortable destroying and suppressing for their own ends for so many years.

What has changed? Only the level of firepower leveled at innocent men, women, and children who have little choice but to endure the pain and anguish being delivered to them hand over fist by men and boys with no more idea of the harm they do than I have of the concussive power of a five-hundred-pound bomb dropped on a suspected terrorist house in the middle of a Baghdad neighborhood.

People like Mark Steyn want us to forget that American troops were sent to Iraq to "defend America", not to foment revolutions and state terror. Not even thinking about the dead American troops, murdered for want of the truth, we are paying a great and dreadful price for the boy's ignorant adventure, as is much of the rest of the world, including the people of the Middle East.

Steyn writes: "What's happening in the Middle East is the start of a long-delayed process." Really? Who is to be held responsible for the delay? Certainly not the people of the Middle East. It is America, or at least many of the same boys and men now sending other boys and men to their deaths, day in and day out, who for years propped up and supported Saddam and his ilk. Now we are to believe these are changed men who have seen the error of their ways? Hardly.

You can play romantic, patriotic, and naive songs all day, but it does not change the nature of these people. They want power over me, you, him, and everyone else on this planet, and they will use you and Mark Steyn to hide their motives from themselves and their own people for as long as you let them.

Any positive development in the Middle East, or anywhere else in the world, is certainly to be noted and, if possible, celebrated, but to attribute any of these things to the policy of this boy and his Junta, is to see real gold where only fool's gold exists.

His Smarminess & the Junta He Leads

"There is something about the smarminess of Americans which makes me see red." --Harold George Nicolson

It is interesting that 51% of the American people think the war in Iraq is "not worth fighting", while 53% "disapprove" of the way Bush and his Junta are handling it. On Election Day, 2004, according to the American Progress Report, "Kerry's vote total – 55.7 million – was still greater than any U.S. presidential candidate in history prior to 2004. That means more Americans cast their vote against Bush than against any other presidential candidate in U.S. history."

There are many differences between Kerry and Bush, but it was Bush who lied America into Iraq, not Kerry. And this piece, "When the Brain Forgets the Brawn", from Haaretz International, continues the effort to smear Kerry for simply trying to hold Bush and the Junta accountable for the actions they chose to take against the will of the majority of America's citizens. The election did not turn on Iraq, but on whether or not gay people should be allowed to marry or have any legal protection under the law. So let's not try to make anymore out of it than it is: Another dark chapter in American history, the history of which will still hold this boy accountable for the small-mindedness he has ridden to his pyrrhic "victory".

At the end of the day, it is still common knowledge and true that Saddam had no weapons of mass destruction, was no threat to America, and certainly was no friend of Al Qaeda. Thus any argument about the use of force serves only to illustrate a truism: It is always harder to make peace than war. Once war is underway, there will always be those who see it as a good thing, when in fact it is the failure of self-control and the result of dehumanizing some member of the human family.

If we exclude the circus and sporting events, the use of "brawn" is always deplored in civil society except in cases where, as in this case, "a government lies to its people" and the country is shifted to war.

A sane, civil society would hold such a government accountable for its actions. In our most recent election, a slim majority of its people did not. So we are in for more of the same, and I am sure more apologists for it will appear. Whether or not John Kerry is reluctant to "use force" is hardly relevant. There are always those who aren't, who seem to see in their striking out some validity that does not cling to those who don't.

The civilized world is probably fortunate that no one as inept but as malleable as Bush was president of the United States when the Cold War was at its height and the Soviets were threatening America's interest. He'd have ridden his Strangeglovian bomb to the depths of Hell and taken millions of Americans with him.

As it is, he has encouraged Iran and North Korea and who knows how many other nations to muscle-up nuclear to protect themselves. We'll deplore it if their brains don't forget their brawn one day, should push ever come to shove.

Israel's plan for using its Nuclear Weapons is called the Sampson Plan, I believe, suggesting that Israel views the use of nuclear weapons as some sort of suicidal move guaranteeing that if it cannot survive, no one else will either. This is where relying on your brawn will get you. It would be comical if there were not children and dumb animals in this world at the mercy of brains hard-wired to brawn, who don't have to suffer the consequences of their own actions.

That is, don't have to suffer the consequences of their own actions in a lawless world, which is where we live thanks to His Smarminess and the Junta he leads, not to mention those who like it that way.

Larry

Free Advice for Nelson Ascher, Whoever He May Be

9/11 happened on the boy Bush's watch. It need not have happened and might even have been stopped--see Against All Enemies by Richard Clarke--if the boy president had been paying any attention to the information he was being given. In other words, if he had been doing the hard work one must do in order to preserve and protect a nation and its people. He was not, nor did he even seem to have a clue that being president of the US was a real job, unlike anything he had ever before experienced in his life. Mr. Ascher--correct me if I'm wrong--seems to think Bush "gets" something about the world in which we live that Kerry does not.

He writes: "In short: either in the US or elsewhere, even in Europe, if the governments and elites do not act, the people will eventually do." Well, "Doh!" as Homer Simpson might say. He, Mr. Ascher, writes a lot (of words) but says very little, leaving his reader, as it were, lost at sea.

To vote for George Bush on November 2nd is to actually choose to be lead by an inept, feckless boy. Maybe, because the Supreme Court appointed him after the Republican Party anointed him, Mr. Ascher mistakes Mr. Bush for one of the "elites" and sees in that some quality that has as yet to manifest itself here in terms of leadership or character. I don't know what Mr. Ascher is getting at, or trying to get at, but to write so much and then come down to one smartass statement about a man he cannot know much about, giving unasked-for advice to the people of America, strikes me as ignorant and arrogant, two qualities America and the world have suffered grievously from for the past three years, thanks to the rule of an unelected Junta whose agenda was never America's and isn't now.

But that is perhaps why Mr. Ascher "likes" the boy Bush and expresses such disappointment in not being able to vote for him. He makes much of his own atheist-and-secularist-ness. What he needs, perhaps, is to go and study the humanists. It might help him clear his head and appreciate the character of our next president, John Kerry, who twice in his life set aside his own hopes and dreams to defend his own--and by extension, yours--humanity. While he was doing this, George Bush was trying to find himself.

Guess what? He's still trying. I wish him all the luck in the world in that little endeavor when he finds himself back in Texas wondering where that tidal-wave of votes that swept him off his pedestal and sent him home came from. Maybe Mr. Ascher worships Mr. Bush? (A lot of people do.) I've got some free advice for him, contemplate these words until you "get" them, THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GOD BEFORE ME. I am sure that even a good secularist, not to mention a bright atheist, if he or she works at it, can sort it out.

In the meantime, the people of America are working to get their country back on a course that leads somewhere rather than nowhere (rather like Mr. Ascher's writing, come to think of it). I know that's harsh, but unlike Mr. Ascher, we in America have no desire to continue this march back into the Dark Ages, nor do we wish to return to a time when in this nation Robber Barons ruled and the president of the United States was considered little more than one of their "boys". After three and a half years, we have had enough.

Larry

Of Backbones & Growth, Leadership & Boyhood

John Kerry's performance last evening in his first debate with George Bush was abslutely galvanizing, as he blew away this boy masquarading as the president of the United States. Josh Marshall wrote, as a first impression of the dabate, "Where did we get these two guys?" All I can say to that is, Josh, it's a little late in the game to be worrying about it. The Democratic Party, in a series of primaries, decided John Kerry was presidential material. Last night, he proved it.

I did not know what to expect last night. I certainly hoped that John Kerry would hold his own. But he did more than that; he took the debate to Mr. Bush and challenged him and his policies virtually every step of the way. Mr. Bush came on stage apparently believing that the man he was about to encounter face to face was that weak-kneed, flip-flopping, liberal pansy he and his party had been talking about since the day John Kerry accepted the nomination of the Democrats as the man they thought could lead them to the White House and begin restoring this country to a place of eminance in the world. George Bush, in other words, encountered a real person, a man, and he was not up to the task of actually debating him or defending his own policies, which have cost this nation so dearly in human lives and human promise.

We live in a world of envy surrounded by a sea of angry men and women, embittered by real and imaginary things. George Bush has made it clear that he cannot abide those who would question his policies or his course of action. He has fallen prey to a group of unelected, arrogant, idealists who encouraged him to take his eye of the ball--terrorists who wanted to hurt America and their leader Osama Ben Laden--and go after someone--Saddam Hussein--who had nothing to do with 9/11. In his own mind, he has confused these two men, even making the mistake last night of saying that Iraq attacked America. Thank God John Kerry came down on that lie with both feet, as I'd hoped he would when I heard Bush say it. The lies George Bush has been told have become the truth in his own head. It is frightening to see him cling to knowledge he must know is untrue. Derrick Jackson, writing in the Boston Globe, thought Kerry let George Bush off too easily here, and perhaps he did. But he didn't hesitate to make the point this nation needed to have articulated for it: Our foray into Iraq was a colossal mistake, an egregious error in judgement.

Last night, John Kerry laid to rest the image of a politician Mr. Bush, Karl Rove, and the rest of the Republican Taliaban had so desparately tried to foist upon the American people in hopes no one would notice their own leader (I'm talking about Goerge Bush, not Dick Cheney) was a boy of no substance. Last night, John Kerry was presidential; George Bush was not. He avoided answering questions. He slouched. He smirked and he scaowled, as if this was enough, and all we might expect from a president. John Kerry was clear, forthright, and masterful, showing not only that he had a strong grasp of the issues facing American foreign policy but that he knows we need a plan for winning the peace in Iraq and restoring America's reputation in the world. George Bush indicated only that he couldn't care less about America's reputation and that he himself was not going to hold anyone accountable for the mess that is Iraq, where people--American and Iraqi citizens--are being murdered every day in a fight, not to defend America, but to export values George Bush does not even seem to comprehend, the values of truth, justice, freedom and liberty, which he and those around him have been so quick to ignore, disregard, or change when it suited them.

One always hopes, faced with a new president (even one appointed by the Supreme Court), that the man or woman holding such an office will grow in mind and spirit, aware of his or her responsiblity to all of the people, not just some of the people and not just some of the time. Mr. Bush has not done this. If anything, he has shrunk in the public eye, in the mind of the people and of the world. He is a boy, in way over his head. John Kerry has a backbone George Bush never quite got to develop. Protected and bailed out by his family at every turn, he did not have to take a stand or become a man. He floated into the White House, and America, perhaps because of 9/11, perhaps not, is the worse for it. John Kerry showed us his backbone last night. We'd forgotten it was there. We need a man like John Kerry in the White House. We have had enough of this sniveling boy, this bully who when given the chance (as he was last evening by Jim Lehrer) will never question to his face the character of a man he knows is better than he is.

Thanks, John. May you lead us out of the darkness this boy has plunged us into.

Iraq Is Mogadishu Writ Large

Rhetoric certainly has its place in the world, but there is a piece in The National Review Online by Victor Davis Hanson that is so bad I cannot let it pass. "War is a series of catastrophes that result in victory," Georges Clemenceau (talking, most likely, about that great debacle in Europe known as World War I or The Great War), is quoted as saying. It was so great it knocked out an entire generation of educated human beings. Clemenceau survived, and this is the victor talking. Tell that to the Germans or, for that matter, to the Russians or, a little closer to home, the Confederacy. What silliness!

As Richard Clarke, in his book Against All Enemies, made clear: President Clinton (for whom I gather the "Clintonites" are named) was so on top of the threat from Al Qaeda that when he left office he handed the "adults" Bush & Cheney a plan for going after Al Qaeda in Afghanistan, which they ignored until after 9/11 took place (one can argue that they did so because they "wanted" just that kind of catastrophe to take place in order to invade Iraq and "spread Democracy").


The author quotes a price of "$87 billion in aid" (just money, not lives), but the National Priorities Project has the current cost at $136 billion and rising by the second. Of course, since the cost does not exist in the Bush budget, the author may not think its real.



"...Leaving unilaterally from Iraq would be a tragic mistake." he writes. (Not just a "mistake", mind you, but a "tragic mistake", which gives the whole thing some sort of heroic Greek patina.)

Actually, there would be a certain amount of symmetry in it, since we chose "unilaterally" to invade the place for no more than comically, ludicrous reasons (see the Seymour Hersh interview in today's Salon Magazine) of a group of idealists who think nothing of killing the innocent if it makes for a better world in the long run (if that reminds you of most people's definition of a terrorist, well, so be it, they are one and the same). Our terrorists just seem to think they have bigger dicks and more firepower (certainly, there is no arguing with the latter) than their opponents, those devil-worshiping foreigners.


Does the author forget that we armed the Taliban to defeat the Soviet Union? Everything the man says suggests that if we can just apply enough fire-power to the world we can "win", and what he seems to see us winning is World Peace and World Order, not necessarily in that order nor in any form you might recognize even if you lived to see it.

America's "moral stake" in Iraq was killed by our behavior in Abu Ghraib, and that certainly is still going on. We have not seen any directives sent out telling our "intelligence" officers to behave themselves and treat prisoners according to the Geneva Convention. Donald Rumsfeld is still in charge.


The author's final argument is the one that says if you oppose me, you support my enemy, as if the darkness and the light do not intermingle. It is a simple, bullshit argument that seeks to put an end to conversation and, if necessary, national elections (which one might call a referendom on where the country is headed). It is as if one were to say that ending a war is "tragic" if your enemy has not quit in abject surrender and crawled to you begging for mercy. It's the politics of the schoolyard, which that great war hero George Bush has raised to such an art form.

What's tragic is that the world has to put up with people like this in positions of power over most of humanity when, in fact, they ought to be able to laugh at them and send them off somewhere where they couldn't do any more harm to the world or its people. These people are simply crazy and people like the author of this piece want to cheer them up. That's okay, but they are running the world right now and are not in the mental hospitals they need to be put in. Maybe, when the American people wake up and go vote on Election Day, they will be on their way there. One can only hope.


How a "fellow of Hillsdale College" thinks it is okay to distort the few facts he offers us so completely that the truth becomes a fiction, like something served up by Fox news, is beyond me. Mr. Hanson does not realize it, but Iraq is Mogadishu writ large (as at least one American General tried to warn our idealists in Washington it would be), especially for the American men and women caught in an impossible position on the ground there. They are paying the price for those who think they can use American troops to gain revenge for their imagined defeats and weakness. Defend the indefensible; perhaps it will get you a job. I cannot think of any other reason for writing such rhetoric or defending men and women who never should have been given power or responsiblities beyond their means to handle.

In Defense of Honesty

When your piety blows up in your face, I guess you get indignant, and then you try to get even.

My friend David, who lives in Zurich and was all for the war in Iraq (Iraq was a threat to Israel), seems to have gone out of his way the last couple of days to send around columns and articles deploring the uproar over the exposure of American's engaging in torture in the prisons of Iraq. A lot of people, it appears, are afraid we are about to lose that coveted prize of those Iraqi oil fields. What follows is in response to this piece from the National Review online by Victor Davis Hanson.

As far as I know, the way the story of American torture in Iraq began to enter public consciousness was the result of a single American soldiar taking exception to what he was witnessing being done to Iraqi prisoners and reporting it to his superiors. In that sense, I guess you could say, the "military had itself uncovered the transgressions" and be telling a modicum of truth. Of course, months before one honest young man stepped forward, out of love for his own humanity, Human Rights Watch and the International Red Cross and at least one reporter were talking, writing, and reporting on this information. No one was paying any attention.

Mr. Bush and Mr. Rumsfeld, according to Colin Powell (and he should know), were aware of what was happening. He said he kept them informed. They did not do anything about it. Why? Because it--torture--was government policy which they sanctioned. So why on earth would they stop it? What they hoped, of course, is that the scandal (which I don't think it was to them) would just go away, never see the light of day (like the prisoners who were killed in captivity).

Mr. Hanson thinks that because a general who never seems to have had any control of this situation to begin with "has already been removed from command", that because "court trials are scheduled", all will be well and everyone should just shut up and, as the Junta likes to say, "trust us" and/or go away and be quiet about it.

That's the problem, isn't it? These people, and Mr. Hanson must have been among them, were trusted and showed how untrustworthy they were.

Attacking Michael Moore, Senator Kennedy, or Thomas L. Friedman for speaking truth to power doesn't change the reality of the truth they speak, though you are not supposed to notice it. Senator Kennedy is attacked for making the most obvious of statements. We acted there no better than Saddam's people did. The "moral equivalancy" argument Mr. Hanson wishes to tar Mr. Kennedy with sticks to his own. Saddam was much worse than the Americans, so no matter how bad we are, if we are not as bad as he was (or "they" were), we're okay and deserve your support. How's that for moral equivalancy? It's as if Dylan Thomas had written, "After the first death, there are plenty of others, so don't worry about it" instead of "After the first death, there is no other."

What Tomas L. Friedman had to say about Colin Powell and the Pentagon's desire "to see him humiliated 10 times more than Saddam" is also fairly common knowledge to anyone who has been paying any attention at all to what has been taking place in Washington over the last couple of years. The only wierd thing about it is that Colin Powell, instead of breaking with the Junta, stays on as the Secretary of State and continues to make excuses for it. Just because Mr. Hanson says it isn't so, doesn't make it so.

George Bush has been lieing to the American public for years now, but few in Washington can bring themselves to say so out loud. Michael Moore, perhaps because he is not himself invested in this government, can. It obviously distresses Mr. Hanson and is why he calls Michael Moore a buffoon. I don't know, but if I put as much faith as Mr. Hanson does in the appearance of reality, rather than the reality itself, I might be as distressed and upset by Michael Moore's influence and obvious talent as he is. One thing is sure, Michael Moore will probably have far more influence on the citizens of this country than either Senator Kennedy, Thomas L. Friedman, or Mr. Hanson.

Those who draw attention to the duplicity and mendaciousness of the Junta don't need to apologize to anyone. Rather they should be applauded for trying to keep everyone honest, even those, like the neocons, who don't think honesty--as it is known to your everyday, run-of-the-mill citizen--is an especially important virtue when you've got an agenda to complete. For these people, honesty, like law, just gets in the way. And people like Mr. Hanson, in their backhanded way, try to apologize for them.