Category Archives: Books

Eagerly awaiting ‘The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt’

When I was looking for a link for this post, I ran across some really good news I had not previously heard. Martin Scorcese is making a movie based on Edmund Morris’ The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, which I happen to be reading.

Now folks, this is what we call exciting movie news! Why didn’t the Real Message Center send me a pop-up about this one?

I’m so pumped — or DEE-lighted, as Morris tells us Ted would have said — that I don’t even mind that young Mr. Roosevelt will be portrayed by Leonardo DiCaprio. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind anyway, after the excellent job he did in "The Departed." And "The Aviator," for that matter. Sure, he may not be Harvey Keitel, but then who can imagine Keitel as TR?

Basically, Scorcese has turned DiCaprio into a highly respectable entity, "Titanic" notwithstanding. It even strikes me now that they teamed up to do a movie about New York from the days when TR was police commissioner there, and police HQ was on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. OK, so, it was a generation before, but it was the right century.

I haven’t looked forward to a film production this much since I heard HBO was going to do Band of Brothers

This makes me feel SO much better

Energy Party think-tanker Samuel Tenenbaum gave me this book to read this morning, but knowing how slow I am at getting books read (currently I’m slogging my way through The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt and Breaking the Spell simultaneously, and have promised myself a novel when I’m done with those), I figured it would be awhile before I’d be in a positive to comment on it, which I figure is something Samuel is hoping I’ll  do, which is why he gave me the book.

… To increase the pressure, Samuel emphasized I was one of the few he’d given it to, the others being Barack Obama, Joe Biden, U.S. Sen. Amy Klubocher (yeah, I had to ask, too — it’s the woman who spoke to the state Democratic convention over the weekend), Capt. Robert Miller (a Democrat, late of the U.S. Marines, who is trying to challenge Joe Wilson), Harris Pastides and John Mark Dean at USC… He plans to give one to Lindsey Graham tonight.

… you’ll notice a trend toward Democrats there. Samuel says Dr. Dean did complain about the book’s politics, to which Samuel said, Ignore the politics! Read the science!

But apparently it’s not necessary to read the book in order to blog about it. This guy panned it without Samuel even giving him a copy. That is, I think he panned it — the post was so long that I figured I could read the book quicker.

I mention this because I’ve got to hand it to the guy for admitting that he didn’t read it. Did I tell my 11th-grade English teacher I hadn’t read Moby Dick? No way (if I had, she might not have given me an A-plus on the essay test, which still stands as a great moment in the annals of the Golden Shovel). Did I tell the audience at the Salman Rushdie symposium I moderated recently that I hadn’t read any of his books? No way. They might have thought less of me…

But this guy, who just comes out and says it, and dares ’em to come on (as Huck Finn would say — and I did read that), is an inspiration to B.S. artists everywhere…

By the way, here’s my short synopsis of what the book’s about. Mr. Zubrin says thumbs-down to hydrogen, thumbs-up to methanol from coal.

Jimmy Breslin is a Moustache Pete

This morning on NPR, Jimmy Breslin was talking about his new book, The Good Rat. It was, of course, an interview replete with his raspy assertions that he knew what the real mob was all about, and that stuff in the movies is a lot of hooey.

Yeah, I know Breslin knows more about the mob than I do, but as an enthusiast of mob flicks, I find his attitude kind of irritating. Sure I know "The Godfather" wasn’t for real — it was less about the Mafia and more a sort of grand American morality play centering around the questions of which is right and good: a society built on laws or one on personal relationships between men. Sure, I know that The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight was probably closer to the truth, but it’s a parody, and I suspect "Mean Streets" is even closer. And "Goodfellas" closer than that.

What about "The Sopranos?" the interviewer asked. He copped a plea: "I was working doing columns on… Sunday nights. I never saw it."

Never saw it? Come ahhhn! Who, in the 21st century, is dependent on watching something when the network (is HBO technically a network? maybe not) shows it? It’s better on DVD. I, who didn’t have HBO anyway, am currently in the middle of the fourth season. Somehow, you get the idea that Mr. Breslin is so Old School, he doesn’t own a DVD player, and still lives life in real time.

But I think he’d like it if he watched it. Don’t you?

Anyway, he did admit that DeNiro is really good at playing a wise guy, so that’s something.

The artificial Horatio Alger

Here’s a socio-political Rorschach test for you. The Christian Science Monitor tells the story of a kid from a middle-class background in North Carolina who moved to Charleston and played homeless (if you’re from N.C., living in S.C. is probably as down-and-out as you can imagine) with $25 in his pocket and no prospects.

He wrote a book about it. It seems to be based on the premise that any poor person should be able to do this. Read it and see what you think.

And yeah, I know "Horatio Alger" is a stretch, since he was only trying to amass $2,500 in savings (and did twice that). But it was the best allusion I could think of.

Do my will, or I will blog out the moon! I mean BLOT! Blot out the Moon!

Lunar_eclipse

Gaze into the sky, ye mortals, and tremble! Behold my power as I stretch forth my hand! Especially between now and 10:01 p.m. Eastern time!

You must do my bidding; you have no choice — defy me, and lose the night’s most blessed illumination!

Hear me — you must henceforth vote for either Barack Obama or John McCain in all primaries yet to come!

Oh, and McCain — you must not ask Sanford to be your veep, or future generations will curse you as they stumble in the darkness!!!!

(Hey, I thought it was worth a try. It worked for Hank Morgan. Columbus, too.)

McCain increasingly turns toward November

Here’s an excerpt from a McCain release that illustrates what we’re seeing more and more, which is the "presumptive" nominee starting the general election campaign:

   

The Washington Post this week clearly laid out one of the key differences at stake in the coming general election. The Post reported, "Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton helped secure more than $340 million worth of home-state projects in last year’s spending bills, placing her among the top 10 Senate recipients of what are commonly known as earmarks, according to a new study by a nonpartisan budget watchdog group." Barack Obama is no better; he requested and received over $91 million of our hard-earned tax dollars for his own special interests and earmarks.
    What’s worse is that Senator Obama, who claims to be a candidate of "change," has refused to disclose the earmarks he requested prior to last year, when he started running for president. Washington needs change, but we will ever see it from someone who is part of the business as usual crowd in the Senate. How many earmarks did John McCain request last year? Zero.

This is a good place for him to start, since fighting pork gets him in good with those crybabies in his base we keep hearing about, and plays well with independents. Heck, even Speaker Pelosi has teamed up with Jim DeMint to fight earmarks.

One quibble, though: It makes no logical sense to say, "Barack Obama is no better," when in the same sentence you quantify the degree to which he was at least less bad: He sought $91 million worth of pork to Sen. Clinton’s $340 million. Assuming, of course, those numbers are accurate.

Huck Finn had a good rule of them that should be applied to political rhetoric: "Overreaching don’t pay."

The Eclectic Sandlapping Palmetto Tree

The NYT today has a story keyed to the 20th anniversary of Bonfire of the Vanities, from the perspective of “how has New York changed since then?”

Thinking back on the way he wrote about the Big Apple, it occurs to me that if Wolfe would really like to write about bizarre, rococo foibles in a sociopolitical context, he should come to South Carolina. He’s done New York; he’s done Atlanta; now he’s doing Miami. All have been done to death. He should come to the home of neo-Confederates, Green Diamond, Bob Jones University, Jake (it’s pronounced “Jakie,” Mr. Wolfe) Knotts, an antebellum form of government, the nation’s most libertarian governor, Andre Bauer, Thomas Ravenel, John Land, Glenn McConnell (arguably the most powerful man in the state, Mr. Wolfe — pictured at right) and the Hunley — and, just a bit into our recent past, Lee Atwater, Strom Thurmond, Fritz Hollings, Jack Lindsay, Ron Cobb, Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker… by comparison, even Rudy Giuliani seems boring.

It would be like Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test without the acid (who would need it?). Actually, come to think of that, I’d much rather see him write about us in his nonfiction mode — partly because the reality here is weirder than any fiction, and partly because I just prefer his nonfiction works, particularly Acid Test and The Right Stuff.

You know why Wolfe disappoints me as a fiction writer? He has no love for any of his characters. Think about it — is there a sympathetic character anywhere in Bonfire or the Atlanta book? It’s a very depressing view of humanity. By contrast, his detached-but-intimate style of journalism makes real people come into view in a way that is far more engaging.

The soul of discretion

Maybe we should get Dirk Gently to become Columbia’s new police chief. In any case, this story certainly reads more like Douglas Adams satire than anything like reality. And yet, here we are:

    Nearly a month after stepping down as Columbia’s interim police chief, Harold Reaves has not returned to work for the city.
    And it’s not clear whether there is a job waiting for him.
    City
manager Charles Austin, who granted Reaves’ Nov. 1 request for personal
leave, told The State this week he doesn’t know how long Reaves will be
out. Austin also said he has yet to ask Reaves specifically why he
wanted time off.
    “As long as he is on personal leave, I think it
would be a matter of his discretion. I’m sure when he comes back, we’ll
have some discussion what the reason was about.”
    Austin earlier said Reaves requested time off for unspecified “family matters.”

Why do I think of Douglas Adams? Well, if you read So Long, And Thanks for All the Fish, you may recall that, after several years bouncing around the galaxy in his bathrobe, the hapless Arthur Dent returns to Earth, and decides he’d best give his boss a ring at work. His boss doesn’t bat an eye at his ridiculous explanation of his absence, and when he asks in an offhand manner when Arthur might return and Arthur gives a vague answer that suggests it might be months in the future (when I get home, I’ll look up the actual wording), his boss greets that with a chipper response along the lines of Right, then. Fine! Cheerio! See you when you get back!

This is apparently meant to lampoon the laxness of personnel policy at the BBC, and it’s quite funny to anyone who’s worked in a real workplace with actual accountability.

But in this, real-life, case, Mr. Austin isn’t even asking why his employee is gone, or when he’s coming back. And somehow, it’s not nearly as funny that way.

Daring adventures at Lexington Medical

Scrub

T
oday, I was reminded of a recent contact report I failed to file at the time. It was our visit to Lexington Medical Center week before last. Mike Biediger, who runs the place, gave a tour to my boss, Henry Haitz; Mark Lett, the top editor in our newsroom; my colleague Warren Bolton; and yours truly. We got to see the hospital’s beautiful new North Tower with its capacious, well-designed rooms. We toured the operating rooms. We saw cool 3D computer scans of people’s vital parts. It was all most edifying, even though they didn’t actually let me cut on anybody.

I hadn’t written about it because I was determined to put together a video show of the tour, and haven’t found the time to edit my footage yet. But I was reminded that I should go ahead and post something today, when I took my Dad home from the place.

Ironically, less than a week after our tour, my Dad was a guest of the hospital, staying in that very North Tower we had toured. He’s been there most of the past week, and I had occasion to try out the comfortable daybeds they have built under the windows of each room. I had a nice snooze yesterday afternoon there; so I can report they work fine. Dad’s feeling much better now, by the way.

A literary footnote: Just before I went to get Dad, I was reading Zorro by Isabel Allende. I bought two copies of the book (one in English, the other in the original Spanish) at a discount sale at the beach over the summer. You might call it Peruvian pulp fiction. I was a huge "Zorro" fan as a kid — I speak of the old Walt Disney TV series. In fact my first watch was a Zorro watch (no Mickey Mouse for me), and I once had a toy épée with a piece of chalk on the end for writing Zs. Ms. Allende’s book was OK for light reading; I finished it just a few minutes ago. (Best part? She included both loyal sidekick Bernardo and lovable nemesis Sgt. Garcia as characters. Worst part? Possibly because it was written by a lady, it had too much romance and too few swordfights.) Anyway, just as I was about to go spring my Dad from the hospital, I was reading a part in which Don Diego was about to spring his father, Don Alejandro de la Vega, from a damp, dirty prison. It seemed like I saw a parallel there. Unfortunately, LMC’s new tower is much nicer than El Diablo prison, and there were no guards upon whom to scratch Zs, so as an adventure, it was a bust.

But it was nice to get Dad home.

The hunter, home from the hill

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,    
  And the hunter home from the hill.    

Leon Uris closed his epic novel about the U.S. Marines, Battle Cry, with those lines from Robert Louis Stevenson. They came to mind when I viewed this video clip sent to me and others by Samuel Tenenbaum, the cover message saying only "Just watch!"

It’s an ABC News clip about a Marine staff sergeant surprising his young daughters upon his return from Iraq. It’s an evocative piece of video, and it stirred Rusty DePass to share this with us:

I can sympathize. I got my boy back from Afghanistan yesterday for 2 weeks. Nothing quite so dramatic but we are glad to have him home. During the next 2 weeks I think his Momma is planning to celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, St. Patricks Day, and any other holidays she can think of.

Here’s wishing a joyful Chrismukkah, and many more such to come, to the DePass family, and my God bless all who serve, and their families.

Loonie prices

Bookprice

Just yesterday, the exchange rate between the U.S. and Canadian dollars came up in conversation, and I wondered aloud whether a book could now be purchased for fewer loonies.

Think about it: Where do you usually see the greenback and the loonie compared? Right — on the cover of books in the bookstore. For instance, the copy of Stephen Ambrose’s D-Day I just plucked off my shelf as an example retailed for $16 U.S., but $21.50 Canadian — in monetary terms, as far apart as Juno and Utah beaches.

Within an hour or so after wondering about that, lo and behold, The Economist explained the situation in just those terms. Seems folks in the Great White North are pretty ticked off now if they can’t get a book at a south-of-the-border price:

CHRIS SMITH, co-owner of a small bookshop in Ottawa called Collected Works, assumed his customers would remain loyal even as the rapid appreciation of the Canadian dollar against its American counterpart made a mockery of the gap between the twin prices printed on the covers of American books. But when Mr Smith asked a few regulars, he was shocked to find that they were going online to buy American books from retailers south of the border. In an effort to keep his existing trade, he now uses the much lower American figure as the Canadian price, even though this means selling American books at a loss. (In the case of Alan Greenspan’s book “The Age of Turbulence”, for example, the prices on the jacket are $35 and C$43.95.)

I sympathize with those shoppers. I’ve always felt a little bad for Canadians whenever I perused book prices: If you’re an American it costs this much, but if your a Canadian, you pay this much. It always seemed a little unfair, even when it wasn’t. Now that it is unfair, I don’t blame Canadian shoppers a bit for griping if they don’t get the lower price.

Granfalloons

Back in a comment on this post, I referred to the Kurt Vonnegut term "granfalloon." Let’s examine it further.

I was never that big a fan of Vonnegut back in the day, when so many of my friends were into him. I disliked anything that smacked of nihilism, and Cat’s Cradle in particular seemed to preach the message, "Why try? Everything is pointless." There is something in me that rebels fiercely against that. I remember writing an essay in high school comparing it unfavorably to Catch-22. Yossarian seemed trapped in malignant absurdity, too, but at the end (warning! plot spoiler coming!), there is a life-affirming burst of hope when he learns that Orr had paddled all the way to Sweden, whereas at the end of Cat’s Cradle, the protagonist is contemplating tasting ice-nine.

Maybe I would feel better about it if I read him now; I don’t know. Maybe I could accept fatalism more favorably coming from a soldier of the ill-fated 106th Infantry Division (which may not qualify as a granfalloon, since so many of its members, such as my own father-in-law, indeed shared a similar fate, which might make it a true karass). But having granfalloon pop into my head while typing that earlier response at least causes me to have greater respect for him for having invented that term.

It’s an important word to have, because it explains why the politics of identity leave me cold. I simply don’t ever feel the impulse to identify with, or stick up for, a person who simply has the same color skin that I do, or is the same gender, or believes in the same religion (even though Catholicism for me is a choice, rather than an accident of birth). Assuming a kinship with someone over such things seems every bit as absurd as the shared association of being Hoosiers, to cite one of Vonnegut’s examples.

Sometimes in the past, I’ve tried to express the thing I object to in terms of "teams." I apply this in particular to the political parties — another form of voluntary association (even though, once people have joined them, they seem to act as though they were born into them and are congenitally incapable of contradicting the party line). Since I don’t see either Democrats or Republicans as embracing coherent, rational philosophies, but being coagulations of people with unconnected goals who have decided to band together, I think of them as having formed teams for purely pragmatic reasons — safety in numbers, pooling resources for organizational purposes, etc.

And teams are not a thing I’m into. The importance that some people attach to identification with, say, the Gamecocks seems to me suggestive of something far uglier. I know that’s ridiculous; it’s generally innocent, but such massive demonstrations of pointless solidarity put me off.

Anyway, now that I’ve retrieved it from my memory banks, I should use "granfalloon" more often.

A bird-brained theory about society

While I’m on the subject of various spectra of political thought, let’s examine for a moment the communitarian-libertarian divide, with a side trip to Monty Python.

On the one side we have the communitarian notion that "We live through institutions," the organizing assertion around which Robert Bellah et al. built their book, The Good Society. "Institutions" is understood here as anything from you and somebody you just shook hands with, to the family, to the Church, or your town council.

And in this corner, we have the libertarian notion of "the Virtue of Selfishness," which has been on my mind the last few days for two reasons: The buzz about the new book from former Ayn Rand acolyte Alan Greenspan, and my having run across and reread her mini-novel Anthem. It’s a philosophy that might be summed up as "We don’ need no stinkin’ institutions."

All of which brings me to the obituary in this week’s edition of The Economist — a proudly libertarian publication that nevertheless chose, as the most interesting/important death of the week, the tale of "an ex-parrot" name of Alex.

I say nevertheless because the success of Alex — who had learned to speak with apparent meaning, not merely to "parrot" sounds — was based in a theory that the factor that promotes intelligence in animals is their social arrangements. In other words, "meaning" in the sense of intelligible communication, derives from one’s society — in other words, to the extent that we live as intelligently, we live through institutions:

The reason why primates are intelligent, according to Dr Humphrey,
is that they generally live in groups. And, just as group living
promotes intelligence, so intelligence allows larger groups to
function, providing a spur for the evolution of yet more intelligence.
If Dr Humphrey is right, only social animals can be intelligent—and so
far he has been borne out.

Flocks of, say, starlings or herds of wildebeest do not count as
real societies. They are just protective agglomerations in which
individuals do not have complex social relations with each other. But
parrots such as Alex live in societies in the wild, in the way that
monkeys and apes do, and thus Dr Pepperberg reasoned, Alex might have
evolved advanced cognitive abilities. Also like primates, parrots live
long enough to make the time-consuming process of learning worthwhile.
Combined with his ability to speak (or at least “vocalise”) words, Alex
looked a promising experimental subject.

Interesting, I thought.

Here are two froods who really know where their towels are

This is wonderful. These two guys have come up with a way to unify our fractured country, and everybody can take part:

    It seemed to them that the nation was more divided than ever over the war and politics, not to mention immigration, race and abortion. So the two of them — Bruce Johnson, a former disc jockey who delivers local fruit and vegetables, and John Maielli, who has a silk-screening and painting business — came up with a wildly ambitious plan for national reconciliation.
    What the country needs, they thought, was a unifying, rally-like event that would be free from politics and in which everyone could participate. Waving a towel seemed perfect…. "A certain amount of energy is released when you wave a towel," explains Mr. Johnson. It’s democratic. It doesn’t require skill or money. Wavers feel kinship with fellow wavers.
    As the event was envisioned, millions of Americans across the country would participate in a National Wave, simultaneously twirling above their heads a red, white and blue towel called the "Official Uniting Towel of America." Organizers picked Friday, July 4, 2008, when people are more inclined to feel patriotic. It would take place at 9 p.m. Eastern time, before most local fireworks go off on the East Coast and at a decent hour in the West. To give enough time for stragglers to join in, the National Wave would last 15 minutes.

It’s simple, to the point that one could easily call it stupid. But its very simplicity, its utter lack of inherent meaning, makes it a blank slate upon which we can all write our hopes and dreams for the country, and most of all express our desire for brotherhood in spite of all our bitter differences.

I’ve got my towel, and I know where it is, and I’m more than ready to use it as a means of reuniting my country. With your help, I hope to keep track of this growing movement, and promote it as the chance arises.

Bruce Johnson and John Maielli — now there’s a couple of froods who really know where their towels are.

Tom Clancy’s back in business

We hear more and more about the return of the bad old days in Putin’s Russia. And now we have a Cold War scenario that reads like a passage from the first few hundred pages of Red Storm Rising. It came this morning via e-mail from International Media Intelligence Analysis, an alert service of Réalité EU. It’s based originally on a Reuters story:

The RAF scrambled four Tornado jets on Thursday to intercept eight Russian long-range bombers, the Ministry of Defence said. The ministry said the Russian aircraft had not entered British airspace. "In the early hours of this morning four RAF Tornado F3 aircraft from RAF Leeming and RAF Waddington were launched to intercept eight Russian "bear" aircraft which had not entered UK airspace," it said in a statement. Russia’s defence ministry published a statement earlier on Thursday which said 14 Russian strategic bombers had started long-range routine patrol operations on Wednesday evening over the Pacific, the Atlantic and the Arctic. The statement said six planes had already returned to base and that the other eight were still in the air. "The planes flew only over neutral water and did not approach the airspace of a foreign state," the statement said. "Practically all the planes were accompanied by fighters from NATO countries." Sky News said the Russian aircraft were heading towards British airspace and did a U-turn when approached by the British fighters. It is at least the second time in recent months that Britain has scrambled jets to intercept Russian bombers.

And so, having collected intel on Britain’s air defense capabilities, they turned toward home. And we are left to wonder why there are Bears, strategic bombers, still conducting — or is it, "once again conducting"? —  anything that could be characterized as  "long-range routine patrol operations." That’s pure Cold-War, finger-on-the-Doomsday-trigger stuff. And what sort of armament were they carrying?

And of course, Mr. Putin wants us thinking things like that.

The Clock Also Ticks

Regular readers know that I struggle to manage my time, and in keeping with that, whenever I file a comment, or answer an e-mail, with anything more than a "thanks for writing" or "you got that right," I try to turn it into a separate post. And so it is that I pull out my evasive response to Randy’s good-faith question:

Brad,

with the vacations on the sand, dining at the CCC and writing an article each week where do you find time to maintain a blog?

Kidding aside, what is a typical day like for you?

Lousy. In fact, not a day goes by that I don’t consider chucking the blog entirely, but I simply don’t have time for it. No sane person with even rudimentary time-management skills would ever start one.

But wait… I’m not supposed to be frank about such things. I’ve always tried to hold to the ethic that Hemingway wrote of in The Sun Also Rises:

    "Come on down-stairs and have a drink."
    "Aren’t you working?"
    "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the café on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I’ve got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said.
    "There’s a lot of liquor," I agreed.
    "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you’re not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you’ve lived nearly half the time you have to live already?"
    "Yes, every once in a while."
    "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we’ll be dead?"
    "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell."
    "I’m serious."
    "It’s one thing I don’t worry about," I said.
    "You ought to."

So I hope you’ll excuse me now, but I have to go get off some cables…

Her Majesty’s Consul General

Every four years or so, a British diplomat will pass through Columbia, and want to talk politics — mainly
presidential, but they have some interest in knowing what’s happening on the state level.

For instance, when Martin Rickerd, Her Majesty’s Consul General out ofHmg3_002 Atlanta, came by last week, he had been asking some local folks about our governor. But mostly he was curious about what the presidential candidates were saying when they visited here — Georgia being somewhat less favored in the primary schedule than S.C.

Of course, I did my usual joke about who was he really, collecting political intelligence this way — SIS? That allowed me to segue to John LeCarre novels, which he also enjoys (although he hasn’t read The Night Manager, and he should), and in other ways avoid serious talk as long as I could, which is my strategy in most meetings. But I eventually shared some thoughts with him that I hope were helpful.

In return, he provided an update on how things are faring politically over on his side — which I found helpful because, let’s face it, I’ve been less interested in following such things since Tony checked out.

Here are some video snippets you may or may not find interesting:

One ping only, Vasily…

"Dirty, rotten commies!," one of my colleagues has been muttering since yesterday. "The only thing worse than a commie is one with oil!" He refers to this news:

   CARACAS, Venezuela (AP) – Venezuela is studying buying Russian submarines that would transform the South American country into the top naval force in the region, a military adviser to President Hugo Chavez said Thursday.
   Gen. Alberto Muller, responding to a Russian newspaper report that Chavez plans to sign a deal for five diesel submarines, said the government is "analyzing the possibilities" but that the money has not yet been set aside.
   Oil-rich Venezuela has already purchased some $3 billion worth of arms from Russia, including 53 military helicopters, 100,000 Kalashnikov rifles, 24 SU-30 Sukhoi fighter jets and other weapons.

But he misses the silver lining: Now we can crank out those nifty new Seawolf-class attack subs. We’ve got the excuse now! We’ve got Russian boats to track and kill again! Right here in River City! "Top naval force in the region?" In our hemisphere? Shades of the missiles of October

Just let those peace-dividenders stop us now! They can take their little Virginia-class toys and shove them where … but I must restrain myself. We readers of too many Tom Clancy novels must be magnanimous in our triumph.

I wonder if we can get Bart Mancuso and Jonesy to come out of retirement for this?

Hayden as top spook? Are we mad?

Hayden? We’re actually considering Haydon to head our secret intelligence service? No way!

Sure, there was none better at humint, and we need that sort of thing these days. But what is that beside the fact that we’ve known ever since the ’70s that Haydon was the mole Gerald, the mostHayden famous double-crossing traitor in spy literature?

Are we to supposed to think it’s someone else because of a slight change in the spelling of his name?

George Smiley, sure. Toby Esterhase, maybe. Even that pipe-smoking Alleline would be more trustworthy, though he’s an idiot. Peter Guillam probably has the seniority by now.

But Hayden? What kind of Circus are we running around here?

Mau-Mauing the Flak-Throwers

My post earlier today linking to something in The Wall Street Journal reminded me of another piece that I never shared with you. It was in that paper (and yes, I do read other things) a week ago today: An interview with one of my all-time favorites, Tom Wolfe.

Have you ever wondered about the politics of the man who wrote Kandy-Kolored, Tangerine-Flaked, Streamline Baby, The Right Stuff, and other brilliant, thoroughly enjoyable works of journalism/social criticism before he turned into a somewhat-painful-to-read novelist? Well, if you read The Guardian, you wouldn’t wonder.

That’s all right; I don’t read The Guardian, either. But thanks to what he’s written in the past, there were no surprises for me in this passage from the WSJ:

Mr. Wolfe offers a personal incident as evidence of
"what a fashion liberalism is." A reporter for the New York Times
called him up to ask why George W. Bush was apparently a great fan of
the "Charlotte Simmons" book. "I just assumed it was the dazzling
quality of the writing," he says. In the course of the reporting,
however, it came out that Mr. Wolfe had voted for the Bush ticket. "The
reaction among the people I move among was really interesting. It was
as if I had raised my hand and said, ‘Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell
you, I’m a child molester.’" For the sheer hilarity, he took to wearing
an American flag pin, "and it was as if I was holding up a cross to
werewolves."

George Bush’s appeal, for Mr. Wolfe, was owing to his
"great decisiveness and willingness to fight." But as to "this business
of my having done the unthinkable and voted for George Bush, I would
say, now look, I voted for George Bush but so did 62,040,609 other
Americans. Now what does that make them? Of course, they want to say —
‘Fools like you!’ . . . But then they catch themselves,
‘Wait a minute, I can’t go around saying that the majority of the
American people are fools, idiots, bumblers, hicks.’ So they just kind
of dodge that question. And so many of them are so caught up in this
kind of metropolitan intellectual atmosphere that they simply don’t go
across the Hudson River. They literally do not set foot in the United
States. We live in New York in one of the two parenthesis states.
They’re usually called blue states — they’re not blue states, the
states on the coast. They’re parenthesis states — the entire country
lies in between."

The wonderful thing about this is the way Wolfe catches modern "liberals" out in their own lack of self-awareness so neatly: He sneaks up on them. Just, as Wolfe chronicled, Ken Kesey took the steam out of an anti-war rally with a harmonica and a couple of verses of "Home on the Range," the King of Coolwrite sneaks up on liberals by being an artist and intellectual. They think they are among their own, and then "… UHHH … Ohmigod! YOU voted for BUSH?" Once his prey is paralyzed, he slices and dices it. He makes jullienne fries out of ’em.

I’d love to see him do the same to modern "conservatives," but dressed the way he is, they’re liable to spook before he gets close enough.

What do I have against both of these groups? They quit thinking. They bought their values off the shelf years ago as a complete set; they’re completely unprepared for anything that doesn’t fit in their little boxes. The Wolfe scene above reminds me of a passage in Bridget Jones’s Diary (yeah, I read it; I wanted to know what the women in my family were going on about). I mean the bit in which Bridget has already fallen for Mark Darcy, and they’ve gotten together and are dating (actually, maybe this happened in the second book), and she finds out quite inadvertently that he votes Tory. She is aghast: How could he? When he asks what’s wrong with being a Tory, she is unable to come up with a coherent answer. Why? Because she hasn’t really thought about it, ever. It’s just that everyone she knows takes it as gospel that all decent, caring people vote Labour. What is this? Mark’s a human rights lawyer, for goodness’ sake…

Between Bridget and Wolfe, I prefer Wolfe, who by contrast told The Guardian:

"I cannot stand the lock-step among everyone in my particular world.
They all do the same thing, without variation. It gets so boring. There
is something in me that particularly wants it registered that I am not
one of them."

There’s a character flaw in there somewhere (one that I’m afraid comes out in his novels), but he’s so refreshing, I’m willing to overlook it.