Returns

Times Square, Election Night 2008

Though I don’t know whether my paper ballot will count, I did manage to vote yesterday, and I am glad of it. This would have been a lousy moment in history to miss out on — and it strikes me now as foolish that, as I originally planned my autumn, I intended to be in Paris on Election Day. True, the Place de Clichy may have been filled with revelry and honking cars upon the announcement of Obama’s victory, and it might have been interesting to see that. But I needed to be in New York last night. We have been through so much together, my city and I. I am glad we shared this, too.

My chief political adviser, Feldstein, and I met for drinks in a Ninth Avenue bar that — much to our surprise — had no television. This would not do. We repaired to a nearby Mexican restaurant, where I knew for a fact that two television sets hanging over the bar would be playing CNN, sound off but captions running.

We found it difficult to tolerate the suspense, as the network refused to call individual contests, and seemingly sure states hung in the balance. We weren’t appeased by the knowledge that the results must surely be known already to people who work in the newsroom. When I worked at CBS, Feldstein recalled, I phoned him at 3 in the afternoon on Election Day ’96 to tell him that Clinton had won reelection; denied the privileges of knowledge and access now, we grew nervous and bitter. We drank quite a number of Mexican beers, and we were rewarded for our patronage with tequila shots, on the house. Whatever Mr. Obama does to NAFTA, Feldstein and I have done our part to shore up the Mexican economy.

To kill time, CNN played with technological toys, the most notable of which was also the most ethically indefensible: the use of a hologram to make it appear that a reporter was in the newsroom, when in fact she was in the field. Apparently the folks at CNN are unaware that it is not the function of a news organization to make viewers believe that anybody, reporter or reportee, is in a place where she is not. Honestly! Do we really wonder that journalists have so little credibility anymore?

In CNN Headquarters, Wolf Blitzer interviews reporter Jessica Yellin.

My professional dander was up, and I bellowed at the television until my adviser thoughtfully advised me to shut up.

The restaurant manager let us listen to the program as the evening wore down, and we heard the historic news of Obama’s triumph and the grace of McCain’s concession — before we were tossed into the gutter.

CNN had been showing us pictures of the crowds in Times Square, just a few blocks away, and so, as Feldstein returned to his apartment, I made my way through the Square. Thousands of my neighbors were out, chattering and laughing, cheering and crying. The hour was too sweet to pass in solitude. I thought — inevitably — of 9/11, and the silence of Broadway as I walked that day. Last night, Broadway was another street entirely, perhaps another universe. We were happy. We were hopeful. We were Americans, and united. And for now we have reason to hope that something better lies before us.

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Election Day

The question du jour is whether I will be able to vote in my native country’s Presidential election.

When I requested my absentee ballot, I expected to be in France on Election Day. As it happens, I’ve extended my stay in the United States. No one is quite sure where my absentee ballot is, since the post office in Beynes insists I’ve had no mail at all in the past month. (This raises all kinds of interesting philosophical questions. If an American Express bill falls in the forest, and no one delivers it, do I still have to pay it?) Because I requested that absentee ballot, I may be disqualified now from voting at home. Or I may not. I am, after all, registered in Harlem. Thus we are talking about the rules and practices of the Board of Elections of New York State, and our particular state is, G*d bless it, deservedly not famous for bureaucratic efficiency in any department.

Sometime today, I will make my way to the polling place where I last voted, in 2004, to beg for the right to cast a vote for President. This is exciting. Middle-aged white guys from Very Old Southern Families don’t ordinarily have trouble voting. We are more likely to make trouble for others. Will I be discriminated against? I’m almost giddy with the prospect.

There’s little chance that my vote will affect the outcome of the election, one way or another. My neighbors in Harlem are likely to agree with me, and New York’s electoral votes are likely to go to Senator Obama. Which is as it should be.

I spent a long time belaboring a little article for this space, on the subject of endorsements and bias in the press — and after several attempts, I abandoned it. I feel strongly about the subject, but this isn’t a political blog. And while it’s clear to frequent visitors to this space that I find little to admire in the Bush Administration, it’s also clear to me that my political analysis is of limited interest to anyone, even to myself.

When I came to France, at the height of “Freedom Fries”, I often detected a slight hesitation among the French I met, a tensing of the muscles. Yet invariably the French relaxed as the thought visibly crossed their minds: if Bill Madison is in France, he must not be one of those ardently pro-Bush Americans. My readers probably have made the same observation, one way or another, and thus it’s no secret that I don’t support the Presidential candidate who sided with Bush 90 percent of the time and who promises only minor and cosmetic changes in Bush’s policies. (Is it biased to say so? Or am I announcing the results of a fair and balanced assessment? Go figure.)

I’m supporting Obama. He’s smart, he’s tough, and he’s serious. I don’t harbor illusions that he’ll make of this nation a New Eden. No one could resolve entirely the problems before us, but I do believe Barack Obama will seek real remedies to our manifold crises. He is our best hope. If he wins, I will celebrate not just change but renewal for my country.


...And if he loses — I will seek French citizenship.

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The Politics of Joe

I was not in the least surprised by the constant invocations of “Joe the Plumber” in last night’s debate between Senators John McCain and Barack Obama. This is because I lived in France during a referendum on a proposed Constitution for the European Union, during which time a fictitious “Polish plumber” became a central figure in almost every discourse. This character was going to drive across the unguarded border in his shabby little Chayka or Trabi and steal the jobs of hardworking French people by repairing their sinks. Or something like that. The fact was that by the time the debate started, it was already legal for Polish people to work in France, and they’d been doing so for a couple of years. Le plombier polonais was so much discussed that some clever folks went out and found a real Pole and made a pin-up calendar of him. (See photo.)

Of greater interest to me was the proliferation of Irish men and women who were opening up “Irish pubs” across the length and breadth of France, yet in the normal give-and-take of French politics, I’ve yet to hear a single complaint about le bar-man irlandais. This despite the significant ramifications: consi- der, for example, that American tourists are now guaranteed at least one spot in every major French city where English will be spoken with native fluency. The effect on international relations, and on France’s sense of its snooty self, has yet to be calculated.

So it’s a step forward for American politics, or at least a step toward France, that the Senators last night took a real man, who lives in Ohio under the name of Wurzelbacher, and projected onto him every manner of jeopardy and aspiration, making of him a kind of real-life straw man to build up or tear down in argument, a cudgel with which to whack one’s opponent. It’s now possible to see that Senator McCain continues to espouse “trickle-down” economic policies that (have we paid attention the past 28 years?) don’t work, because he is thinking of leaky faucets.

In today’s Europe, debating can be fun!

Neither of the candidates bothered to point out that, even in a major recession, a plumber’s lot is relatively secure: our pipes will back up whether we have jobs or not, and the rescuing plumber will charge us whatever he can get away with, just as he always has. Neither of the candidates talked about Joe the Teacher, Joe the Environmental Scientist, Joe the Solar-Energy Entrepreneur, who might actually help this country. Neither candidate talked about the Joes who resemble the rest of us, Joe the Unemployed, Joe the Uninsured, and Joe the Foreclosed. A little variety would have been nice, instead of hearing only about a plumber, but then, time was limited.

And what of Joe the Shrubber?

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Against the Physical Law That Prevents My Being Two Places at Once

I didn’t watch the U.S. Presidential candidates’ debate last night. I am in France, without television, and though the French radio news has been generous in its references to the event, these have hewed mostly to telling us that it took place, without characterizing the statements made or the outcome. We are interested in the electoral campaign, but we can’t quite bring ourselves to get bogged down in the details — somewhat like the candidates themselves.

Nevertheless, thanks to the Internet, I have been able to read the New York Times coverage and some of the Washington Post. Thanks to dial-up, this process took only slightly longer than the debate itself. I’m sure that watching the pages load was less interesting than watching the telecast, but I inspired in myself the enthusiasm, even the suspense, necessary to enjoy myself. (After these years of net-surfing in Beynes, I will be fully qualified for a paid, full-time position to watch paint dry.)

I do regret that I was unable to be in the States last night: the ideal circumstance would have been to sit with Feldstein, my most trusted political adviser, engaged in a simultaneous running debate of our own. “Debate” is perhaps the wrong word, since we agree on practically everything, and nothing more than our mutual certainty that, if only more people would do what we tell them, the world would be a better place. Last night would have been a princely occasion, liberally sprinkled with wine or something stronger, and the fact that we’ve known other such evenings would not diminish my enjoyment, any more than it diminishes my regret now.

But it is a law of physics that one cannot be in two places at once. I have tried to violate that law, without any success. This week would have been an exceptionally good time to find myself scribbling away in Beynes (as I have done) and at the same time skipping along the streets of Manhattan, off to see Feldstein and to attend the tribute on Thursday night to my former boss, Teresa Stratas, sponsored at Town Hall by the Metropolitan Opera Guild.

From the Met Guild’s promotion of the Town Hall event, Teresa as (left to right) Jenny from Weill’s Mahagonny, Marie Antoinette from Corigliano’s The Ghosts of Versailles, and Mar'enka from Smetana’s The Bartered Bride. The last is one of my favorite pictures, because although Teresa smiles and laughs often, there are few pictures that show her doing so.

Some of my most precious moments with Teresa have been those when the two of us were alone, talking about music, which inevitably led to talking about life, a subject about which she knows a great deal more than I ever will. I knew that the Town Hall tribute wouldn’t afford me such opportunities, because the event would be shared with hundreds of people. In that sense, I wasn’t missing much.

But I was Teresa’s fan long before I knew her, and another of my precious moments was an entire summer we spent trying to organize her press clippings and other such memorabilia. Since Teresa has about as much interest in remembering her triumphs as she does in commanding a Marine landing, I don’t know what the purpose of this archival work could have been, though I suspect its real purpose was to put spending money in my pocket while I was in graduate school.

In a steamer trunk filled with clippings and photos, there were all sorts of unexpected gems. A performance at the White House, for President Kennedy! The Queen of Spades in the Soviet Union, when she created an international incident: she thought the Russians didn’t like her singing, when in fact they were waiting for the curtain call to cheer her. That Canada and the U.S.S.R. didn’t fire their missiles that night is pure luck. Or the time she was mugged in Central Park, and overpowered her assailant. (She’s 4'11.) And dozens of pictures of her in roles I never knew she sang.

That wasn’t a steamer trunk, it was a treasure chest. Some of these things she was willing to talk about, and others, she insisted, she had forgotten. Sometimes she seemed as surprised as I was by what we found.

As a fan, then, I’m tantalized by the knowledge that much exists in Teresa’s career of which I have only inklings. The Met Guild promised surprises of its own, rare video clips of her performances, and since there are plenty of those that I never saw, and others (her terrifying incarnation of Berg’s Lulu) I’ve seen only once, I’m furious at the laws of physics.

The Ancient Greeks of course preferred to blame their deities for these things. Teresa’s Cretan ancestors likely had a name for the god or goddess who prevented my being with her; if I supplicate appropriately, perhaps I’ll be able to see her in a few days, when I fly to New York.

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Lipstick Traces

There’s plenty of reason to be concerned that, in the week leading up to the worst financial crisis in United States history since the Great Depression, the candidates for the Presidency were mired in a debate over lipstick. If the upheaval on Wall Street and the bailouts in Washington had any benefit to the rest of the country, it may be simply that the candidates have changed the subject — at least for now.

Yet the political climate in America has my friends on both sides of the Atlantic worried. Both Democrats and Republicans are telling stretchers about each other and themselves, and both campaigns obsess over trivia, not issues. My left-wing friends put the blame squarely on the shoulders of Senator McCain’s operatives, who promote blatant lies about Senator Obama and who suck their opponent into futile arguments. (And it’s true that Obama’s misrepresentations of his opponent are smaller-scale and have less traction.) Yet the finger-pointing is perhaps the smallest of their concerns: they’re more worried, indeed panicked, that the American voters may be fooled by all this nonsense, and wind up making their choices on the wrong grounds. That is, they worry that McCain’s smoke and mirrors will distract Americans from his real positions on the economy, foreign policy, judicial appointments, and all the rest, positions that they believe contrary to the public interest and in many cases dangerous to the world at large.

My friends are bemoaning Obama’s cool, possibly calculated responses to attack. Moreover, they castigate the press for excessive devotion to “balanced coverage,” which leads to a failure to expose McCain’s lies, and Governor Palin’s. Trouble is, the press has already done so, and as one of her handlers observed, it doesn’t matter. The more that the “mainstream media” point out that Palin didn’t say “no thanks” to the Bridge to Nowhere, didn’t sell a plane on E-bay, saddled Wasilla with debt, etc. — the more they pick apart her résumé, the worse they look.

This is (I hope) the culmination of the ages-old Republican drive to turn journalists into enemies of the State. In the build-up to the Iraq War especially, the American press rolled over and played dead, more lapdogs than watchdogs, while continuing to take repeated beatings. Long accustomed to Republican attacks, reporters feared more of the same if they didn’t come to heel. When Dan Rather lost his job at CBS News, primarily because he’d reported about President Bush’s National Guard record what even the White House admitted to be true, you can bet that other, less secure, less well-paid reporters paid attention — as they did in 1988, when Dan’s attempt to question President Bush’s father about the Iran-Contra affair blew up in his face. (In the aftermath, only one other journalist, Bryant Gumble, dared question Bush Senior on the subject — the next morning. Bush’s possibly illegal and impeachable activities never came up again.)

The credibility of the American press had suffered already by the time that Bush Junior orchestrated his propaganda drive to war with Iraq. That credibility is lower now, and we are only beginning to see the results. When the press tries to report important news — Abu Ghraib and Guantánamo; the outing of Valerie Plame; the firing of U.S. attorneys for political reasons; the serial abuses of Constitutional power by Bush, Cheney, and Addington; the incompetence of Rumsfeld, Gonzales, and “Heckuva Job, Brownie”; the false representations of McCain and Palin — nobody pays much attention anymore. Excepting left-wingers, of course, who were already convinced of the wrongdoing.

In the past few weeks, Ron Suskind has delivered evidence that the Bush Administration knowingly cooked the books, inventing false justifications for a war that Barton Gellman now reveals to have been started arbitrarily: hitting somebody, anybody, was viewed by Dick Cheney as a signal of American determination. Iraq was merely a convenient target, and the lofty declarations of American security interests and Mid-East stability were only window-dressing. Bob Woodward has painted a portrait of Bush as alarmingly detached from reality, more interested in political gain than in loss of human life. Yet thus far there have been no repercussions. No Congressional investigations, no criminal proceedings, no popular backlash, no demonstrations in the street.

Much like the current financial crisis, the loss of credibility of the American press is far worse than it appears at first glance. The McCain campaign has so far been able to flourish with its contradictory message (“Republicans have damaged America, so elect Republicans to fix things”), to shield Sarah Palin from questioning and scrutiny, and to persuade significant portions of the electorate (including some of my relatives) that Obama is a secret Muslim operative who favors sex-education for kindergartners and will raise taxes for most Americans — these things are, in their way, only a narrow indication of the scope of the problem.

Will voters be fooled? That remains to be seen. But it will be a long time before the jitters subside. The game plan has been clearly established, it’s been proven to work, and other campaigns — whether Republican or Democratic — will follow it scrupulously (or un-) in years to come. To defeat these tactics will require legions of gifted candidates, an even greater number of courageous journalists, and an electorate that learns, by whatever means necessary, to tell the difference between truth and lipstick.

I can understand why so many of my friends are pessimistic.

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Charles Kuralt and the Age of Miracles

No matter which party wins the Presidential election in the United States in November, I face the prospect of being governed by a person younger than I. Barack Obama was born 18 days after me, Sarah Palin three years later. I will be older than the President or the Vice-President of the United States. That such a thing was possible had occurred to me only as a vague, rather theoretical idea, over which I never lingered. (To make matters worse, it’s being reported that Governor Palin is about to become a grandmother — which means that, technically, I am now more than old enough to be someone’s grandfather.) Yes, some day I’ll be older than the President — and some day, man will visit Mars.

It’s a pity Obama didn’t pick a younger man as running-mate. Then we could line up all the candidates like a remake of The Mod Squad, with McCain as the crusty Captain Greer. Wouldn’t that be cool?

Somehow it’s easier (and surely less frivolous) to dwell on the historic. An African-American man is the nominee of a major party for the Presidency of the United States — that fact alone is awe-inspiring. In my lifetime, which I persist in describing as short, I have seen my native country go from segregation to a nomination. I may yet live to see an administration. I honestly didn’t believe it would happen.

If the Republicans win, a woman will be Vice-President of the United States. She’s now primed automatically to be a leading candidate for the Presidency in 2012. If a President McCain were to step down because of health or to die in office (realistic possibilities), she’d be the incumbent. This is an age of miracles — and it makes me think about Charles Kuralt.

I didn’t know Charles Kuralt, and he surely did not know me, though we worked in the same building and sometimes on the same broadcasts. I recall that during election-night coverage in 1992, Kuralt observed on the air that he had voted for the first time for a presidential candidate younger than himself. So far as I know, no interest groups protested this expression of political bias on his part — obviously he meant he’d voted for Clinton. If Dan Rather or Connie Chung had said such a thing, you’d still be hearing the ruckus. Kuralt’s popularity was titanium and Teflon. He could run over your dog when he was On the Road, and you’d still watch his shows and happily buy his books.*

That night in 1992, Kuralt seemed immensely old, and it was difficult to imagine anybody older. He was in truth younger than he looked, and hadn’t yet turned 60, but I was a kid of 31 and careless. Kuralt didn’t say how he was coping with the reality of being older than the President, and I wish he had, because that might have helped me now. Sometimes his words stick with me.

Indeed, as I write this, I begin to wonder whether it wasn’t Mike Wallace who spoke. Such is the force of Kuralt, though, that I doggedly give him the credit. (Besides, he’s dead and can’t sue me.)

To cite another example of that force, I recall Kuralt’s broadcasting from the Soviet Union, either for the Seven Days in May show or for Vladimir Horowitz’s return to Moscow — I didn’t go on either trip, but I watched on TV like everybody else. Kuralt spoke of the powerful emotional reaction to hearing one’s national anthem played in a foreign country, and years later I understood what he meant when I passed through a Parisian Métro station and heard a band playing “New York, New York.” It’s not a song I love, but it’s the anthem of that city, and you never hear it in this one. I was caught off-guard. I stood there only a moment to listen, then hurried up to the street, overpowered by patriotism, homesickness, and love. And I remembered Charles Kuralt in Moscow.

He was a masterful writer for his own voice; when I read his books, I find the prose flat and disappointing, the thoughts banal, until I remind myself what he sounded like. Then the rhythms emerge, and I pay closer attention. Confessing that he was about to be older than the President was probably not a statement Kuralt wrote out in advance, but I hear his voice in those words, and I hear him now.

*NOTE: You can almost hear him narrating the story, can’t you? “We went to see a man about a dog the other day. We ran over it, we told him. He was a good sport about it, though. Said he never much cared for animals. Invited us onto the porch for hot coffee and homemade biscuits. His wife collects matchbook covers. She’s got about a thousand of them. Then it was time to go.”

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The Palin Nomination

The news was greeted with surprise on this side of the Atlantic.

Most of us in Europe were surprised by Senator John McCain’s selec­tion, announced yesterday, of Michael Palin as his running mate. We have been in deep confusion over the American presidential campaign for several weeks, stymied over such questions as why the United States requires two years for a political process that most European nations can achieve, start to finish, in two months. Moreover, the French are puzzled that Barack Obama isn’t already President, since he is so man­i­fest­ly one of the two or three most fascina­ting creatures on earth today. I am confident that, if he loses in November, he will be offered the Presidency of France as a consolation prize.

One cannot overstate Obama’s popularity here. I know that’s the sort of news that dooms the chances of any American politician; the admi­ra­tion of the French, like a penchant for endives, arugula and Swiss board­ing schools, is an automatic disqualifier for high public office. But Obama’s following in France is a fact and it must be recognized. Elect him, and Parisians will begin eating Freedom Fries in solidarity.

Palin (left) is expected to appeal to voters who dress like him.

Against this backdrop of bewilderment, the selection of Michael Palin is especially confounding to our understanding of American politics. We vaguely recall that we have seen him on television wearing a dress, and we have seen him in movies holding either a fish or Maggie Smith. That lady is known here as “Moggy Smeese” and viewed as an out­stand­ing representative of the pernicious triviality of the English. (Our great French actresses are never funny, and that is a point of pride with us.) Palin’s career in comedy makes us wonder why McCain didn’t choose someone more familiar to us, indeed idolized by us: why were Jerry Lewis and Jim Carrey passed over? We have reason to believe that Palin, like Moggy Smeese, is English, and previously it had been our under­stand­ing of American government that the President must be a U.S. citizen, as Lewis and Carrey are.

Addressing McCain’s weak support among conservative Christians, Palin also shares Vice-President Cheney’s interest in extreme interrogation methods.

However, we Europeans are constantly learning surprising things about America. Eight years ago, we learned that in the United States, un­like other ostensible democracies, the candidate who receives the most votes on the Supreme Court, rather than in the general election, is the victor. Discovering that America is not truly a democracy has made it easier to grasp much of what has happened since — such as the election of 2004, which we understand to have been decided by suicidal maniacs bent on the destruction of the planet. In France, we probably would not let such people vote; we certainly would not let them rule. We would take to the streets. Aux armes, citoyens! Allez, les Bleus!

This is not Palin’s first run for public office.

Since yesterday, our analysts, both the political and the Lacanian kinds, have struggled to clear up our confusion. They explain to us that Sen­a­tor McCain hopes that Palin will deliver an important bloc of voters whom Obama alienated during the Democratic primaries: name­ly, all those Americans who have memorized every single Monty Python sketch. Obama’s steadfast refusal, even during the Democratic Con­ven­tion last week, to say “Ni,” to sing the “Lumberjack Song,” or to dem­on­strate a Silly Walk, only handed McCain this opportunity.

A McCain–Palin administration would appoint conservative judges.

Only a few pundits have striven to explain that Senator McCain chose a different Palin, who is neither English nor a comedian, nor even a man. This woman Palin, we are told, is the Governor of Alaska, but that sen­tence alone poses insuperable challenges to our comprehension, since the French word gouverneur does not have an accepted feminine equiv­a­lent, and since until now we have been under the distinct im­pres­sion that Alaska was in Canada.

Wherever Alaska is, Palin boasts close ties to the logging industry.

We followed the Democratic Convention with great interest. So many of our all-time favorite personnages were in D’Enfer-Coloradó: both Beel and Eellary Cleen-Tong, former Président Hal Gaure, former Premier Ministre Tiède Kénnédy, and of course Obama himself.

But the Republican Convention won’t be a ratings winner here. We don’t care much for their personnages, particularly the notorious war crim­i­nal Georges Bouche. Though some of us have learned the name of Sénateur Jean Mack-Haine, we find him dull. So he once visited Vietnam — what Frenchman on holiday has not? The Club Med there is passé. Was there really no one better to choose? At least Mite Romné speaks French! (Or so we are told.)

Palin (left) is reputed to be a skilled debater.

It’s possible that we will take a moment to scrutinize La Gouverneur Palin, but mainly to see whether she is as chic as Michelle Obama; we will sigh happily that neither is quite so chic as Carla Bruni. It is a spec­ta­cle, this American election, but generally we prefer American movies: they are shorter, the acting is better, and there’s always the chance of a cameo by Jim Carrey.

The Americans, they are a funny presidential race, n’est-ce pas?

However, Palin’s debating techniques are somewhat unusual.

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A Formal Announcement

Ending weeks of heated speculation, I am taking immediate steps to remove my name from the list of possible running mates for the major-party nominees for the presidency of the United States. After careful deliberation, I must respectfully decline both Senators’ interest. I am going now to rededicate myself to my family, although of course I will continue to speak out on the pressing issues that matter to rank-and-file Americans everywhere.

I urge my supporters to accept my decision and not to draft me as a write-in, to press for a roll-call voice vote, or to shout my name in high-pitched voices during the keynote speeches. No, my friends. Now is the time for all Americans to get behind the nominee of their party’s choice. Not too close behind, just an appropriate distance behind. And it is important also that we remain fully dressed while we get behind our nominees. We don’t want them to get funny ideas about us. God bless America!

Some may rush to say that I am being hasty, that the scandal will blow over and I will emerge a viable candidate. To them I say, “Which scandal?” For it is true that I have yet to denounce my pastor; indeed, I don’t even have one. It is also true that I have yet to disassociate myself from my top political adviser, Feldstein, despite his many controversial positions, which include sitting, standing, slouching, and immigration. It is equally true that I am not now, nor have I ever been, married to any of the women I have slept with. I do however want to take this opportunity to deny categorically that I have ever slept with Evan Bayh. I am not bayhsexual.

I understand that the press, as well as advisers to both campaigns, has questioned my skimpy legislative record, my lack of executive-branch experience or military service, my credentials, my judgment, my morals, and my handwriting. Senator Obama’s staff doubts that I could deliver my home state of Texas, and Senator McCain’s staff doubts that I could deliver my other home state of New York; President Bush has thrown himself into the debate by expressing doubts that I could deliver France. And Vice-President Cheney has stated publicly that I don’t know how to attach electrodes to the testicles. Pollsters assert that my principal constituency lies among middle-aged white college graduates who have met me at a cocktail mixer in Dubuque in 1996. To these nattering nabobs of negativity, I say, “Let them come to Berlin!”

Seriously. It’s a nice town.

I want to thank my family for standing behind me, although not too close and fully clothed, during this time. My wife, if I had one, would wear a good, Republican cloth coat. My children, if I had any, would wear good, Democratic tie-dyed dashikis. And my dog would wear a good, Libertarian collar, except that the whole point of being Libertarian is not wearing a dog collar. So my dog, if I had one, would be free-range, which would appeal equally to the Greens. And my dog would stand behind me now, too, although perhaps only partially clothed. It’s up to him. Or it would be, if I had a dog.

My parents, retired mill-workers who came to this country with nothing in their pockets but lint and a credit card, once dreamed of an America where their son could grow up splitting rails and building log cabins, eventually running for the vice-presidency and maybe buying them a nice retirement condo in Florida with rec-room privileges.

My friends, we are living that dream, you and I — at least the part where my parents dreamed of having a son, if not all the rest of it. But let us never forget: my parents did wake up, eventually! I talked to my father yesterday, and he was wide-awake. You could tell by the way he didn’t snore.

I am proud to represent their dream. I am proud to represent the spirit of change that is sweeping this country — change from a government of incompetent, unqualified, Ivy-educated, Texan baby-boomers to … I’ll have to get back to you on that.

I am proud to represent the hopes and aspirations of a statistically negligible percentage of Americans, proud to be an American, and proud to reject the nomination for the vice-presidency.

Thank you, and God bless Peoria.

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Genres of the Convention

Although I’m not in this picture, I was somewhere in the room when it was taken.
Madison Square Garden, 1992.

There are few more reliably poignant reminders that I no longer work in broadcast news than the nominating conventions of the American political parties, which doggedly persist in taking place even though I’m not there to cover them. “Cover” is perhaps the wrong word to use, since it implies that news might actually be involved, which is only rarely and fleetingly the case. Dismayed by the mayhem of the Democratic convention in Chicago, 1968, organizers in both parties began to do their utmost to present to the nation a serenely polished spectacle in which very little would happen of interest to anyone on earth. News organizations continue to pour enormous resources into covering the conventions, however, in the fearful hope, or hopeful fear, that someone may slip up and do something significant.

The press is currently trying to drum up excitement in the Democratic convention — will Hillary sabotage it? Has she already sabotaged it? Is this Obama’s party, or Clinton’s? Don’t be fooled. By the time they get to Denver, there will be no drama for Obama, and the press knows it already. They’re simply trying to justify their expense accounts ahead of time.

Rock on. New Orleans, 1988.
I missed out on this one, actually.

I attended five conventions, three Democratic and two Republican, in 1988, 1992, and 1996. At my side on all these excursions was Dan Rather, whose roughing up in Chicago in 1968 has come to symbolize both the mayhem of that week and the last gasp of newsworthiness at any convention. By the time I arrived on the scene, technology had advanced to the point that it was no longer necessary for Dan to wear an elaborate headset like the one he’d worn on the floor of the Chicago convention — but the sight of him in any headset at all was startlingly powerful. He was a television icon, like Spock in his ears or Matt Dillon with his pistol.

He used to roam the halls, greeting delegates and reporters alike with the cheery request to “Call me if any news breaks out.” People would chuckle, but he wasn’t joking. He was likewise serious when he’d say to me, “Take a good look around. This may be the last time.” He didn’t mean the last time for me, but the last time for the networks. Covering a convention is an expensive proposition, and though it’s a gesture of good citizenship, the rewards are few. As conventions get duller, fewer people watch. During my tenure, all three major networks cut back on the hours devoted to convention coverage, and all three cut back on personnel, too. The lavishness of it, by turns circus, parade, and Roman orgy, could not survive.


I’ve written here about the summer-camp excitement of attending a nominating convention. It’s not unlike a Star Trek convention, too, for we are brought together by a passion that others do not share, and we find thereby a community. We treat as major celebrities people who are not widely known to the general public (“Look, there’s Walter Koenig/Evan Bayh!”), we boast of our knowledge of trivia while speaking arcane languages (Klingonese/policy), we are encouraged to buy overpriced memorabilia (an authentic copy of a phaser/a Pat Buchanan button), and many of the conventioneers feel the need to wear strange costumes (Wisconsin cheese-heads being but one example). Having witnessed both ladies in action, I can assure you that the appearance on the dais of Nichelle Nichols or Barbara Jordan excited a precisely equivalent frenzy among their respective audiences.

At least Star Trek conventions are colorful. At the nominating conventions, our eyes are assaulted by red, white and blue — it’s everywhere — until we get headaches, and in more severe cases, we start to see spots. Pink, purple and green ones. We have regrettably little time to get to know the cities where conventions take place, though my glimpses of Chicago and San Diego in 1996 inspired me to linger through the weekend after each convention had ended, and to return several times on my own. We can’t get into the good restaurants, because big shots like Peter Jennings and Bob Dole got there first. For fear of a security breach, we can’t afford to hook up with attractive conventioneers — but fortunately, there seldom are any. Rob Lowe may have gotten laid in Atlanta in 1988, but I didn’t.

I miss the conventions. I miss the speeches, which with only one exception (Buchanan in 1992) were incredibly, invariably dull. I miss the foolishness — I miss watching Al Gore dance “The Macarena.” I miss the skullduggery, the wariness accorded to the politicos by the press, and vice-versa, while each side feeds voraciously off the other. I miss the pomposity and audacity (“The next president of the United States, Michael Dukakis!”), the eccentricity (“The great state of Missourah nominates… ”), the pageantry, the inevitable balloons. And I’ll miss it again this year.

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Drill Now!

The view from the garden

Like so many Americans, I am eager to set aside partisan politics in order to find quick fixes to difficult problems. That’s why I was so pleased to hear Senator John McCain’s new campaign slogan, “Drill here! Drill now!” It is the Republican’s assertion that increased offshore drilling would result in the immediate rise in production and reduction of prices at the gas pump. This flies in the face of the facts, as well as reason, logic, common sense, and the analysis and testimony of people who actually know anything about the subject, but it plays very well among voters like me, who know nothing, and Senator McCain is increasingly adamant on the point. I admire his tenacity. Like a remarkable percentage of Americans (two-thirds, in a recent poll), I find myself agreeing with the Senator. The experts, bah! What do they know?

Rather than wait for the do-nothing Congress to debate, rather than side with Democrats who, according to Senator McCain’s spokesmen, want Americans to pay more and to suffer, I decided to take action on my own. Though I’m sure the Senator really means “in the ocean,” if one defines “offshore” more simply as “not on American soil,” one can’t do better than France. I am already offshore. Thus I recognized a unique opportunity to contribute to American political and economic discourse by testing the Senator’s assertion. I determined to drill here — in Beynes — and to drill now.

Unfortunately, location was the easy part. I don’t personally possess any oil-drilling equipment. I meant to bring some when I moved to this country, but the lousy airline told me I was exceeding the weight allowance for my checked baggage. You know the feeling — we’ve all been there — standing at the check-in desk at JFK and sorting through your bag, removing your 25,000 feet of drill pipe and your spare cable, your drill mud and your derrick girders, while the attendant glares at you and the people waiting behind you begin to fume. Some arrogant New Yorker actually had the nerve to say, “I bet this guy is from Texas.” “You bet I am, buddy — wanna make something of it?” I replied. But my flight was leaving, and there was no time to brawl. I had to leave all my drilling equipment, every last bit, right there at the counter, and even at the time, I knew I’d regret it. I haven’t seen it since.

There will be oil:
With any luck, I will shortly look just like this guy.

However, the house at Beynes boasts a tool closet, filled with all kinds of gadgets and hardware accumulated as they are in any old house, particularly one that used to be part of a working farm, as this one was. Surely I’d find what I needed — and I did, a battery-powered hand-held perceuse with half a dozen changeable bits.

I cleared an oil patch in the garden and set to work. Regrettably, my output thus far has not been significant. The drill battery requires frequent recharging, and though I gave myself a head start by drilling in a pre-existing hole (abandoned by a hedgehog), I have yet to reach a depth greater than about 84 cm., or indeed to strike any oil. It’s been arduous and expensive, too, necessitating emergency medical treatment after I encountered a hostile native, Bernard, who walloped me when he saw what I was doing. But the true American spirit won’t back down — and certainly not to a Frenchman! I will not cease until I strike oil. Not James Dean, not Daniel Day Lewis himself could match my determination. My stitches will be removed in two weeks.

And I am pleased to note that gas prices in the United States have begun to drop already. I will write this very day to Senator McCain, reporting my success and urging him not to relent in his campaign. Reality-based policies are clearly a thing of the past, and ignoring facts and experts has led to most of the signature achievements of the current administration, from tax cuts to disaster relief, from the war in Iraq to enhanced interrogation methods. There is every reason now to believe that President McCain would enjoy comparable success. My offshore drilling is just the beginning.

In other news, the candidate threatens to hold his breath
until we vote for him.

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Hillary Drops Out! and Other Conventional Wisdom

The Agony of Defeat.
(Except that this picture was taken weeks ago, when she was still front-runner.)

To read the newspapers the past few days, you’d think Hillary Clinton had dropped out of the race for the Democratic presidential nomination already. In reality, her campaign is in trouble, beset by organizational problems, dwindling funds, missteps by the candidate and her husband, and the simple fact that Hillary doesn’t connect with voters as viscerally as her opponent, Barack Obama. But in a further reality, only she knows whether she plans to drop out soon, and when asked directly, she says she’s in the race to stay.

So why are the commentators and analysts now saying the same thing — “The clock is running down” — and saying it all at once? As one who used to write political commentary for a living, I can offer a few answers.

There are indeed trends in political writing, during an electoral campaign. The past year has seen many, many such trends, and a by no means complete list must include the following:

• John McCain is inevitable.
• Hillary Clinton is inevitable.
• America isn’t ready for a female president.
• Rudy Giuliani is inevitable.
• Christian and/or social conservatives will never vote for (pick one) Giuliani, McCain, Romney or Ron Paul.
• Fred Thompson would be inevitable if he’d just get into the race.
• Fred Thompson got into the race too late and doesn’t really want to win.
• John McCain is dead in the water.
• Golly, Barack Obama gives a good speech.
• America isn’t ready for a black president.
• Barack Obama is not black enough.
• Mike Bloomberg is about to announce that he’s running as an independent.
• Mitt Romney has no chance because he’s a Mormon.
• Mitt Romney has a lot of money and therefore can’t be counted out.
• Mitt Romney’s speech on faith has effectively put questions about his religion to rest.
• Mitt Romney’s speech threatens an American theocracy.
• Iowa means nothing.
• Iowa has destroyed the Clinton and Romney campaigns.
• Hillary Clinton needs to show some emotion.
• Hillary Clinton showed too much emotion.
• Bill Clinton is Hillary’s secret weapon.
• Bill Clinton has destroyed Hillary’s campaign.
• Bill Clinton would support Barack Obama, any other year, because they are the same guy.
• Mike Huckabee is a funny guy, although he’ll never win.
• Mike Huckabee is a contender with serious momentum.
• Barack Obama is getting on Hillary Clinton’s nerves.
• They’re attacking each other; they’re tearing the party apart.
• They are cordial toward each other; that’s what’s tearing the party apart.
• Is Rudy Giuliani still in this race?
• Rudy Giuliani is out of this race.
• John McCain’s closest friends say he is too hot-tempered to be president.
• John McCain is inevitable.
• John McCain is corrupt.
• Mike Huckabee is dead in the water.
• Barack Obama is inevitable.
• Barack Obama has a Messiah complex.
• John McCain is dead in the water.
• Hillary Clinton is dead in the water.

And that’s just what I’ve been able to track while living abroad. It’s dull reading for those who follow more than one publication. You might think that political reporters and analysts get a briefing every morning, much like the ones on Hill Street Blues, and then “go out there” and write articles that rehash the same received wisdom.

I can account for a number of factors that lead to this lock-step.

1. Reporters are bored. They write about these horse-race topics because they have heard too many speeches and read too many reports on the issues. Never mind that you haven’t, never mind that it’s their job to tell you things you don’t know. Political writers are just too bored to cope. They turn in desperation to the only topic that promises excitement, drama, and fond memories of days writing copy at the sports desk: who’s up, who’s down, who’s ahead, who’s got momentum, who’s “attacking” whom.

2. Reporters are lazy. In order to write a “trend” story, one need merely watch a little television, read a couple of voter surveys, and talk to one’s buddies at the Punchy Pundit Bar & Grill.

My hands are clean! See?

3. Reporters dislike being spun. Despite their laziness, they’d happily talk to campaign operatives — which is a sort of interview, and somewhat like working — if they weren’t certain of being jerked around. Some political writers (David Broder, Robert Novak) actually seem to enjoy being jerked around, since they keep setting themselves up for more jerking, but they are the exception.

4. Reporters are under terrible time pressures. This isn’t their fault. They have deadlines, and they have no choice but to produce some compelling prose on command. They seldom have time to research intensively, to write thoughtfully, or to think at all.

5. Reporters just want to be loved. They want readers, viewers, listeners and web-surfers to love them, so that ratings or circulation figures won’t fall, so that their bosses won’t fire them. Moreover, the quasi-adolescent yearning for popularity leads them to say whatever their friends say. If the other pundits are writing something, they’d better write the same thing, or else people will think they’re not cool.

Now you know. There’s a widespread misperception that political reporters have political agendas, but in my experience this is completely untrue. (The pundits are another story, of course, because they’re hired to write opinions, and the easiest way to get an opinion is to follow an agenda — that is, to say what your friends are saying. See #5.) Reporters love a juicy story (see #1), and that takes precedence over almost anything. My former boss, Dan Rather, has been depicted as a left-wing liberal, and he’s seen more than his share of run-ins with Republicans — but I’ve never seen him happier than when he’s talking to Bob Dole or John McCain, interesting guys with great personal stories (see #1) who give him good quotes (see #2), who speak frankly (see #3), who are always ready to talk at a minute’s notice (see #4), and who seem to like him, too (see #5).

I say unto ye, I am come not to destroy but to fulfill.

The nominating campaigns this season have been exciting, historic, important — but not necessarily for the reasons you read in the papers. You can protect yourself by reading what the candidates say and do, and by taking with a grain of salt what reporters and pundits say the words and deeds are supposed to mean. And you can avoid anchors and editors who say, “Tell us what will happen next,” while you avoid the reporters and pundits who respond to that idiotic request. I never met anybody in the press who was worth her or his salt as a fortune-teller; they can’t see the future of a political race, anymore than they can predict earthquakes. And as Dan used to say, “He who lives by the crystal ball must learn to eat a lot of broken glass.”

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