Category Archives: History

A separate reality

Whoa, what just happened? I felt a disturbance in the universe, an unraveling of the very logic that keeps the celestial spheres spinning. Suddenly, nothing makes sense! What could it…

Oh, yeah. I mentioned the Confederate flag on the State House grounds, and I did so in terms that were almost dismissive rather than worshipful. In the universe in which the Flag is a Big Deal, certain concepts such as proportional response do not exist. It’s sort of like drawing cartoons of Mohammad — expect something that has little to do with what you said or did.

I was reminded of that by this comment on a recent post:

Mr Warthen,

Would you please provide a picture of yourself for my blog. I am in
the habit of crediting those who trash the Confederate Flag for my
readers, and I’d love to make you my newest entry!
http://aint-no-4-letter-word.blogspot.com/
Thanks & God Bless

Posted by: Billy Bearden | Sep 22, 2006 8:43:19 AM

OK, fine, credit away — but what does this have to do with me? Wait — are you suggesting that what I said somehow "trashed" the flag? I suppose if I said the sun went down last night, I’d be disrespecting old Sol, and could expect protests from outraged sun-worshipers.

Bradbeard
Talk about missing the point. But I should know to expect this. After having written about the flag hundreds of times (just not so much lately), I should actually feel the shape of space-time shifting around me as I re-enter the atmo of that loony world.

But hey — a reader request is a reader request. Rather than making poor Billy use that "mean" face above, as suggested by bill, I’ll provide something more directly tailored to the purpose. It’s just as mean, but has more of a period look. In fact, in this picture I was deliberately trying to affect a "Civil War general" scowl. You know how, back in the 19th century, getting your picture taken was such a big deal, and you had to be so still, that people always looked like they were constipated or something? That’s what I was going for.

Anyway, I thought anybody that much into Confederate memorabilia would prefer this gag picture to the other gag picture.

I would have made it sepiatone, but I had some trouble with PhotoShop.

 

Don’t thank me. I’m all about service.

Art restoration

John72
T
his is one for you art lovers out there. My roommate from my USC days recently took part in the special pre-demolition reception for former inmates of the Honeycombs. He will remain nameless for now — all I will say is that he was an art major, and that is him at the bottom of the above image.

As you see him, he has just restored a graffiti work from his early Gonzo-minimalist period — or restored it as well as he could, working in a hurried fashion before the university authorities could notice he had slipped away from the group.

By the way, my roommate was the responsible one in our duo — he kept his side of the room spotless, with all his art supplies neatly stacked and categorized, his clothes put away in the closet. He was the one with the short, conservative hair. I think he even used to make his bed.

My side looked like a waste dump, featuring pots with week-old food cooked on with my contraband hotplate, sloppily-hung posters and dirty clothes. The finishing touch was my mountain of State newspapers, not one of which I ever tossed, constantly spilling over to his side, and earning me the sobriquet "Ratso Rizzo" (we had both seen "Midnight Cowboy" over at the Russell House). He still calls me that, even though I’ve cut my hair and shaved.

Connoisseurs of early-1970s, 4th-floor Snowden culture will recognize the above hastily-penned reproduction as only dimly evocative of the original, once-thought-to-be-immortal work that was scratched deeply into the paint that coated the concrete-block wall. It was located over the elevator immediately across from our room, and was still there when I took my bride by there on our honeymoon three years later. I was proud to play the docent and explain to her the history behind this treasure. She was suitably impressed, I think — she was speechless.

Unfortunately, the original was lost to a later renovation of the building — probably about the time they put those sissy dividers in to make separate shower stalls in the floor’s one bathroom.

But all is not lost! My roommate and I are planning a guerrilla revisit to the site in the next few days, and hope to restore the original to its rightful place, so that the building’s boisterous spirits will lie at rest when the Big Crash comes. If you would like to help in bringing about this once-in-a-lifetime testament to the (adolescent) human spirit, your cash gifts can be sent to this blog.

Sunday grownups column

Dreaming of a world in which
grownups are in charge again

By Brad Warthen
Editorial Page Editor
REMEMBER when everything from politics to marketing to fashion to entertainment was aimed at grownups?
    Take television: While we kids owned Saturday morning (“Mighty Mouse” and such), prime time was keyed to the buttoned-down square world of people who had come up during the Depression and reached maturity — a sort of maturity most of us would never know — during the last war that this nation could get it together enough to see all the way through.
    “Popular music” was made by these old guys in suits with short, slick hair who looked like they could as easily have been bankers. Perry Como. Andy Williams. The height of hipdom was Dean Martin. He showed he was daring and edgy by walking around with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. Pretty sad. (A friend and I would compete as to who could more closely lampoon him: “Oooh, ah think ah’ll go over an’ sit on da cowch…”).
    Every once in a while, they’d throw us a bone. Ed Sullivan, the squarest guy who ever lived, would on rare occasion devote five minutes of his hour presenting something “for you youngsters.” But when he said that, we never knew whether he would be bringing out the Rolling Stones or Topo Gigio, the talking mouse. These morsels were presented within an adult context, as curiosities from an alien culture that adults could smile down upon indulgently.
    Once, these brothers called Smothers tried to have a show that was sort of different. But the grownups put a stop to that.
    So much for popular culture.
    Take politics. It was so quiet and low-key that for the longest time, I didn’t even know it existed. Ike had always been president. (I was born in 1953.) Then this shocking thing happened in 1960. Two guys stood before the nation asking us (asking the grownups) to pick between them to determine which one would replace Ike as president. It came down to a popularity contest. That brought the presidency down a bit in my estimation. Before that, if I had been familiar with the phrase, I would have assumed Ike was “president by the grace of God.”
    I guess it never occurred to me that there was an alternative to Ike being president because back then, even political opponents accepted that that the president was the president, and were content to wait for the next election to have their say.
    And when they had their say, they were so grown-up about it. No mindless pandering to voters’ selfish impulses. Go back and read excerpts from the Kennedy-Nixon debates. Forget how they looked. Their words were so lofty, so respectful, so intellectual, so well-informed. They debated like… grownups. It was weird.
    Time passed, and I went off to college, just as things were starting to change a bit. (It’s a little-acknowledged fact that for most of us, the ’60s really didn’t happen until the ’70s. Go back and look at high school yearbooks; you’ll see what I mean.) Then I got married, went to work, had kids, and suddenly it was the ’80s.
    MTV. I couldn’t believe it. It was like the very best few seconds that you might have squeezed out of a year of boring television in the early ’60s — only 24 hours a day, every day of the year. But I didn’t have much time for it. Work, mouths to feed. One maturing experience after another.
    And then the millennium passed, and I looked around again, and the kids had taken over. In the grocery line, I was surrounded by headlines that would have insulted a 12-year-old’s intelligence in 1962. I flipped through the channels now available on television, and there was nothing on that any grown man would want to see. OK, there was “House.” But he was overwhelmed by programs that put such an ironic twist on the word “reality” that I guess it just goes over my head. Or under it.
    (I did see one recently that my very grownup wife likes, but only because she likes anything with dancing. All you could hear throughout the show was the kind of screaming that you heard in small bits when The Beatles came on. Only this adolescent keening wasn’t for anything special or exciting; they screamed for everybody. They screamed when people said hello. Here’s the really weird part: What was this show about? People doing the fox trot. It was like Lawrence Welk with semi-nudity.)
    Once, we played war with toy guns, and if we were really daring, we played marbles “for keeps.” Now, kids join gangs to play war with real guns. For keeps.
    How did those who think and act on a childish level get to be in charge? I never got my turn.
    That’s why I celebrated last weekend’s aggressive crackdown on underage drinking in an editorial headlined, “The grownups strike back in Five Points.” For once, maturity was asserting itself as dominant over the random raging of the ungoverned id. It gave me hope. I dared to dream.
    In my dream, a swarm of determined grownups swoop down on the Democrats and Republicans, toss them all aside, and put up a couple of thinking adults for us to choose between for president.
    They compete to see who can say the wisest and most mature things. They tell us we have to stop burning all that oil, and that we have to pay taxes to help come up with an alternative. They tell us that we have to accept the fact that we are the strongest country in the world, and that with that power comes responsibility. They tell us there’s no free lunch — on Social Security, Medicare or anything else. If we build in a flood plain or on a sandy beach, they tell us we should have known better, and maybe this will teach us something. They’ll say the FDA should regulate nicotine. They tell us to stop whining, sit up straight and eat our vegetables.
    I’d vote happily for one of them. And if the other won, I’d respect that. I’d be a man about it.

The King is dead, but only technically

Jelly_donut
We all know
what today is. Even those of us who are forgetful, or those heathens who don’t swear fealty to The King, should know after this story was in the paper
yesterday.

The front-page promo for that story asked readers whether they remembered "where you were the day Elvis died."

Well, I should hope so, seeing as how I was probably the first human on the planet outside of Memphis to know of his reputed demise. I wrote a column about it on the 25th anniversary, which in honor of the occasion I will repeat in its entirety here:

ELVIS AND ME, OR, THE KING IS DEAD, BUT ONLY TECHNICALLY
Published on: 08/16/2002

By BRAD WARTHEN, Editorial Page Editor
MY GOOD FRIEND Les Seago was the man who told the world that the King was dead. But before he told the world, he told me.
    I’ve always appreciated that, even though it didn’t do me much practical good at the time.
    On Aug. 16, 1977, Les was the chief Memphis correspondent for The Associated Press. I was the slot man on the copy desk of The Jackson Sun, which meant I had been at work since 5:30 a.m. By early afternoon, the paper was on its way to readers. I had also been a stringer for Les for years, and I was used to his calls to see what was going on in our area. But he didn’t have time for that this day.
    Was it too late to get something in? he demanded. Well, yeah, it was, just barely, but why…?
    It looks like Elvis is dead, he said, explaining quickly that he had a source, anElvissullivan ambulance driver from Baptist Hospital, who told him he had just brought Elvis in, and he was pretty sure that his passenger had been beyond help. Gotta go now, ‘bye.
    He must have broken all speed records getting it confirmed, because I had just begun to tell my co-workers when the "bulletin" bell went off on the wire machine as it hammered out the news.
    Les himself was found dead at his home two years ago, at age 61. Though his career had spanned many years and he had covered Martin Luther King’s assassination, The Associated Press identified him in his obituary
as the man "who filed the bulletin on the death of Elvis Presley." His ex-wife Nancy said "He wasn’t wild about Elvis, but he was glad that he did break the story." That was Les.
    Sometime after that phone call, it struck me as odd that the ambulance driver had been less than sure that his passenger was dead. According to the details that later came out, it seems he would have been able to tell. Maybe they didn’t let him get close. I don’t know. But I remembered that uncertainty years later, when all the live Elvis sightings began to be reported. While it is my considered opinion that anyone who thinks they ran into the King at the Circle K is a couple of jelly doughnuts shy of a Graceland breakfast, the way the man lives on in the hearts of his fans is almost as hard to believe.
    Don’t get me wrong. Elvis meant a lot to me, too. One of my family’s earliest home movies shows me at the age of 4, gyrating with a plastic guitar and shouting out "Hound Dog." I still think the kinetic essence of rock ‘n’ roll has never been expressed better than he did it in "Hard-Headed Woman." When my family moved to Memphis in 1971, I didn’t even know it was on the Mississippi River. But I knew that it was where Elvis lived.
    Memphis was fond of Elvis, but in a calm sort of way. His last series of concerts in his hometown, at the Mid-South Coliseum, had to be extended to seven performances to accommodate the demand. (I was there for one of them. I sat close enough to learn how to do that hip-shaking thing, which I will only demonstrate on special occasions.) But the town never made a fuss over him. He was the King, but he was also just this guy who rode his motorcycle around town and occasionally dropped in at a dealership to buy a Cadillac for some complete stranger.
    It was only after his death that he became an industry. That’s because, in a twist that Joseph Heller might have written, the whole world started coming to Memphis to see Elvis only after he wasn’t there anymore.
    The craziness started a year after that phone call from Les. I was in Memphis covering the simultaneous police and fire strikes that were making national headlines. A group of us were hanging around outside the main police station downtown, waiting for something to happen, when something did — although we didn’t recognize it. A couple of really attractive French girls came up to us to ask, in broken English, how to find Graceland. We had all started trying to tell them by gesturing with our hands and speaking very loudly when some wise guy from The Tennessean showed us all up by giving them directions in French.
    After they had left, we thought to wonder why they wanted to go to Graceland. Didn’t they know Elvis was gone?
    A year after that, my paper sent me back to Memphis, this time to document the bizarre fact that people were still flocking to visit the King’s grave two whole years after his death. The Elvis industry was just starting to gear up in the Bluff City. I interviewed one of the first of a long line of Elvis impersonators, checked out a statue that was about to be unveiled, and went to Graceland.
    In those days, the family was still living in the house, but they didn’t mind folks coming up the driveway to see the grave as long as we behaved. Nobody sold tickets. Uncle Vester Presley sat on a folding chair out at the oft-photographed front gate greeting everybody. That’s where the line began. After chatting with Uncle Vester, I wandered up the queue interviewing fans at random. They were from all over this country, plus a group from Leicester, England.
    As respectful visitors gazed down at the graves of Elvis and Gladys, I talked with a young man with a walkie-talkie who was helping keep an eye on the crowd. He was one of E’s karate and racquetball buddies, now a sort of impromptu security guard and keeper of the flame. He must have liked my attitude, because he decided to share something special with me. Guiding me discreetly over to a corner of the house, he had me peer into the rear grounds. "See that ol’ pink Cadillac back there? No, back there… see it?" He went on in a hushed, reverent tone: "That’s the first car he bought his momma."
    You can still see the pink Cadillac — for a price. You can even go inside Graceland now. You buy a ticket across the street, somewhere in that awful, plastic, glittery block full of trashy souvenir shops, and some stranger drives you over on a bus.
    When we visited Memphis this year, some of my kids did the Graceland tour. They thought it was pretty cool. I think it helped them, who never knew the King, get a little more in touch with their essential Elvisness. As for me, I have yet to visit the Jungle Room. Elvis himself hasn’t invited me in. Yet.
    Write to Mr. Warthen at bwarthen@thestate.com.

I would not be able to forget this anniversary even if I tried. Chris Roberts former reporter and computer whiz at The State, has brought me a jelly donut on this date each year for longer than I can remember. Even now that Chris has left the building to go teach at the university, he still manages to deliver. He sent the one pictured above via a colleague who was visiting the campus. Without that happy coincidence I’m not sure what he would have done, but Chris is a man sufficiently in touch with his essential Elvisness that he would have managed some way.

Thanyuh, Chris. Thankyuverimuch.

Elvises

The Marines make do

Huey
I
t seems I’ve always heard that the Army gets all the new stuff, while the Marines make do with hand-me-downs. When the Army had M-1s at the start of WWII, the Marines were cleaning the cosmoline off 30-year-old pieces that were, in the memorable words of a character in Leon Uris’ Battle Cry, "worthless as tits on a boar hog." Then, in the 1991 Gulf War, the Army had Abrams tanks while the Marines drove M-60s.

But it’s always been a point of pride for the Corps that they make do, and more than make up for the inadequacy of their materiel by maintaining it better and fighting harder. It’s a formula that has seemed to work.

Anyway, all that jumped to mind when I saw the above photo out of Beirut, where the Marines had returned to help evacuate U.S. civilians.

That’s a Huey, people! I doubt most of these Marines were alive when the Army ditched those.

Of course, the Marines do have a lot of cool equipment they’ve hardly gotten to use — hovercraft forHover amphibious attacks, for instance. To the right you see one of those coming ashore in Lebanon. But the AP photographer didn’t make it clear in his cutline whether that was a Marine vehicle or not.

I’ve also seen folks being evacuated in an older-style amphibious vessel — an LCU. Note how much the below photograph is reminiscent of the way we picture the Normandy invasion — except that the American’s are civilians, and they’re going in the wrong direction, and the terrain looks more like when the Big Red One landed in North Africa in 1943, and this particular craft was built either in 1969 or 1970.

But other than those things, it’s a dead ringer.

Lcu3

I’ll have a White Russian, please

Czarist1
A
nd you think we’ve got conservatives over here?

This is the 88th anniversary of the assassination/execution of Czar Nicholas II and his family by the Bolsheviks. I’ve always thought it was one of history’s most horrible moments — smaller in scale than France’s Reign of Terror, perhaps, but hardly less barbaric.

It’s a good thing to dwell on whenever we begin to forget how lucky we are as Americans. This event was, on a moral level, roughly equivalent to the crime Truman Capote chronicled in In Cold Blood. Only in Kansas, that was committed by a couple of deviant drifters. In Russia, it was just a way to change governments. We’ve been doing that without bloodshed over here ever since the election of 1800. We should thank God for that every day.

Back to the topic at hand — it was horrible, but it did happen quite a while back. Nevertheless, theseCzarist2 guys in Moscow are apparently as ticked about it as if it had happened this morning. We have some of that in this country as well, but if you saw a bunch of guys who looked like this in the streets of Columbia, you’d assume they were bikers demonstrating against a proposed helmet law.

What these folks want, though, is to restore the monarchy. As we watch Russia rise again in economic and geopolitical influence, it is of relevant interest to consider all the things that can bubble back up after several generations of repression.

Check the ascetic pallor. Emaciated limbs. Hollow cheeks. Deep, fanatic eyes. You get the impression that these very guys have been sitting in a garret somewhere writing feverish manifestos for the past nine decades?

They’re really barking up the wrong tree. Don’t they know that Russia already has a czar? His name is Vladimir.

Puting8

A Decent Respect

France
E
verybody can quote from the second paragraph of the Declaration of Independence. You don’t often hear the first part cited.

That helps make it fresh each time I read it. This time, I was struck by the last words of the intro:

… a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

As you know, there is no greater supporter of our nation’s involvement in Iraq than I. But I’ve also been bitterly disappointed by mistakes the Bush administration makes, and continues to make, in prosecuting the war.

I do believe that ultimately, the United States and the "coalition of the willing" should go ahead and do what needs to be done, with or without the blessings of the likes of France and Germany. But I believe also that the administration could have done more to show "a decent respect to the opinions of mankind" than it has done. That’s one reason why I think Donald Rumsfeld should have been dumped a long time ago.

Too many of the president’s supporters say "to hell with the rest of the world." They shouldn’t. Yes, we must do what we must do. But we doom ourselves to ultimate failure, and loss of the leadership position that makes us effective, if we don’t show some of the humility in the face of our fellow men that came naturally to those brave souls who signed the Declaration.

They weren’t asking anybody’s permission. But they did want to be understood, and explained themselves eloquently.

We could do with a lot more such eloquence today. The two photos, both taken today, show the options. We’re much better off, and much better able to fulfill our mission in the world, if we are seen the way we are in the photo at top — a statue of Jefferson being unveiled in Paris. The picture below shows a protest in Denmark over Guantanamo. Anything we do to encourage the latter view of us if harmful to the United States, and to the rest of the world — which, whether it wants to or not, depends upon us and the choices we make.

Denmark

Good thing I’m not blogging today

Here are some of the items I would have posted yesterday had I been blogging. Which I’m not. ‘Cause I’m on vacation. Anyway:

  • We wanted to get an early start since we were heading all the way back to S.C., but while my wife was downstairs getting the free breakfast I decided to check my investments. My portfolio consists — that is, consisted — of about $1,300 worth of Knight Ridder stock. I’ve written of this brilliant move on my part before. Anyway, we ended up being delayed about half an hour, because I discovered that, instead of having been converted to cash in the sale of the company earlier this week, my investment had simply … disappeared. I had about $67 left in my e-trade account. First I got an Indian guy on the phone (he didn’t tell me his name, but if I had asked, he probably would have said it was "Steve"), who passed me to somebody else, who said I needed to talk to a "professional," who said I needed to talk to another "professional." I think the last guy I talked to said something — money, negotiable securities, something — should show up in my account in the next couple of days. I shrugged, and we got on the road. By the way, if you need investment advice, my services are available for a fee.
  • Before putting away the laptop, though, I checked to see if there was anyplace good to stop on the way for coffee. There was a Starbucks in Fredericksburg, a couple of hours out. (I have confessed in the past about my hateful Starbucks jones, which makes at least one of my coffee-drinking children ashamed of me.) It was at a place called "Central Park." I decided I could wait that long. You couldn’t miss Central Park, but it was very, very easy to miss something located within Central Park. I remember Alan Kahn talking about places where they had something like what he had in mind for the Village at Sandhill. This had to be one of them (I’m not in a position to check archives at the moment). This place was like the Village at Sandhill multiplied by Harbison to the power of the Mall of America — street after street of shops, strips and big boxes. The general layout was like Broadway at the Beach — winding lanes and such — but it went on and on and on. You know how terrorists dream of 72 virgins? This is what Burroughs and Chapin dream about. Only blind luck enabled me to find Starbucks in all that. I did stop and ask directions. Guess where? Where would be the last place in the world where you would be likely to find people who knew the way to a trendy-yuppie place like Starbucks? That’s right. Wal-Mart. I first asked the greeter, and when she looked up and had only one tooth in her head, my heart sank. I asked another employee, and she gave me very confident directions, but they were entirely wrong. Fortunately, I ran into it while on the way to the place she had pointed out. If was only a couple of hundred yards from Wal-Mart.
  • I stopped by the battlefield in Petersburg, because one of my great-great grandfathers had died there. I called my uncle from the visitors center to get him to remind me what unit he was with. He couldn’t remember, and my cousin who’s the genealogist was off someplace. But he did tell me that we had determined that great-great grandad had not died at Petersburg,Crater_1 but at a place called "Kingsburg." The ranger in the visitor’s center had never heard of it. So we went off to have a look at the Crater before getting back on the road.
  • The Crater was disappointing. I expected something about half a mile across. This wasn’t big enough to be a cellar for a small house. Ol’ Henry Pleasants didn’t use as much dynamite as Butch Cassidy, I suppose. Anyway, it was a glorious victory for South Carolinians, as the plaque I photographed (and will post when I get back to the house) attests. But it was a godawful mess. Forgive my levity. I kept saying to my wife as we drove through, looking for stop number 8, "Here we go, just breezing by, and all those men poured out their lifeblood atScplaque_1 every one of these stops." I am capable of being sober at times.
  • OK, this one’s weird. Anybody ever read The Guns of the South by Harry Turtledove? If you haven’t, I’m not going to describe it to you, because it will lower your opinion of my reading tastes. But it’s really a lot better than it sounds. Anyway, it’s an alternative history novel, in which the South wins the war. Instead of being the famous man who created the Crater at Petersburg, Henry Pleasants appears in it as a POW released by the Confederacy after the war, who decides to settle in Nash County, NC. His Crater idea does occur to him in the novel, but within a completely different context. Anyway, Lt. Col. Pleasants was captured at the battle of Bealeton. Not familiar with that one? That’s because it only happened in the novel, after the course of history changed from what we know. But this novel, which I’ve read more than once, kept screwing up my sense of real history as I drove through Virginia and N.C. As we drove by the exit to Bealeton, I started to tell my wife, in a professorial tone, how this was the place where … and caught myself just in time, realizing that it never actually happened. Then I saw the Crater made by the real Col. Pleasants. Then we’re driving through N.C., and we enter Nash County. Then we pass by the exit for Nashville, where Nate Caudell lived. If I had seen a sign to Rivington, I really would have freaked out. You have to have read the book to understand that last one.
  • How come, when you’re looking for the junction between one Interstate and another, they don’t give you a little warning so you can be on the lookout for it? Paranoid about missing my turn, I kept looking obsessively at all the signs for about 50 miles. I wanted to get off 95 and onto 40 to Wilmington. You know when the gummint finally deigned to put up a sign telling me it was coming? Two miles away. If I had been in one of those semiconscious zones you get into while driving for just two minutes, I could have missed it. I didn’t, but still. Don’t you think they should tell a guy a little earlier.
  • I am never going to Wilmington again for the rest of my life. All we wanted to do was turn onto 17 and head down to the Strand. Easy, right? Not around there. I turned off looking for the waterfront areas where there might be a nice seafood place. We found nothing, and then could not get back onto 17. Really. I have a great sense of direction, if nothing else, but it was useless in that place. We were lost for an hour. Once I found the bloody bridge, though, it was easy. I was so glad to get out of North Carolina, and back home. So was my wife, and she’s actually from Tennessee.
  • They don’t even know how to have a beach town up there in N.C. The place was totally dead, and just looked like any other Southern town. As soon as we crossed the line, we were greeted by a fireworks place, then restaurants, tacky tourist traps, all sorts of crazy, bustling traffic and an Eagles or Wings on every block. People deride the Redneck Riviera, but it’s the Beach to me, and felt as homey and welcoming as my blue recliner at home. If only I had packed those ratty old slippers of mine.

Well, that’s enough. Like I said, good thing I’m not blogging today.

Confederate BDA

Courthouse72
A
pparently, I spoke too soon. Pennsylvanians do have their Civil War (that’s what they call The Recent Unpleasantness up here) battle scars, and they do have a capacity for clinging to the fact. Like us, they don’t just fix up thePlaque72 damage and move on. This makes me feel closer to them.

Indeed, there was no artillery damage to their statehouse in Harrisburg, but I conducted a closer BDA examination in Carlisle, and found evidence that Confederate artillery was somewhat effective inWall72 leaving them something to remember us by when our boys were making that swing through the Gettysburg area.

The damage to the pillars and wall of the old Cumberland County courthouse is not only preserved, but marked with the date. Sure, they did it in a haphazard, tacky way — without bronze stars. But it shows that they do have a certain SouthernPillar72 incapacity for letting bygones be bygones. I just knew these were my kind of people.

Now, if they could only figure out how to do grits, so I wouldn’t have to make them myself in the hotel room. (Which I am eating as I type — true, real-time blogging.)

D-Day is enough to remember today

Normandy
Attach whatever numerological (in)significance you choose to this being 6/6/6. To me, it just means it’s 62 years since 175,000 of our finest young men launched history’s greatest amphibious assault on Hitler’s Fortress Europa, with outcome dubious. Mistakes were made, intelligence was woefully lacking (hedgerows? what hedgerows) and losses were heavy, especially at Omaha. But our boys kept pressing on, and got the job done.

I will always, always be in awe of them.

Down in New Orleans, they’ve changed the name of the D-Day Museum to the National WW II Museum, apparently in an effort to draw more visitors.

But D-Day should have been enough. New Orleans is the home of the Higgins Boat, which is what put the troops on the beach and helped win the war in the West. (The main reason Hitler hadn’t taken out Britain four years earlier was that he didn’t have such sealift capacity — that, and the Luftwaffe’s failure to take out the RAF.) That should be enough for anyone to want to see. It’s enough for me, anyway.

Dday_museum

Instead, we get THIS insanity

I had my previous post fresh in my mind when I read about this pandering insanity. For those of you too lazy to follow links, here’s the gist:

WASHINGTON, April 25 — President Bush announced a series of short-term steps on Tuesday intended to ease the rise in energy prices, including a suspension of Bushoilgovernment purchases to refill the Strategic Petroleum Reserve, a relaxation of environmental rules for the formulation of gasoline and investigations into possible price gouging and price fixing.

This is as bad as when Al Gore got Bill Clinton to loosen up reserves to help him get elected in 2000.

I say "as bad as" because I can’t quite decide which is worse: For a president at war in the Mideast to do this, or for a guy who pretends to care about the environment and sensible energy policy to do it in peacetime. Each action has its own loathsome qualities.

Rationing? Even better

Gas1"Look!" wrote my colleague Mike Fitts in an e-mail yesterday. "– an idea even less popular than your huge gas tax hike!"

"And even better, in my book," I wrote back.

He was referring to this letter on today’s page:

After reading Mike Fitts’ excellent column, (“U.S. helping to keep
oil prices marching upward,” Friday) on the woeful consequences, both
economic and diplomatic, of rising oil prices and of the inevitable oil
shortages to come, I’d like to put another option on the table: oil
rationing, which could bring a variety of benefits.

Many lament the fact that the only ones called upon to sacrifice in
this time of war are those on the front lines (and their families).
Rationing gas would call on everyone to sacrifice, just as during World
War II, when we all had ration cards, not only for oil but for many
other of life’s necessities such as meat, clothing and tires.

Fitts tells us that demand for fuel keeps going up, despite the
steadily rising price, which means leaving it to the market to control
supply and demand isn’t working. So perhaps only the government can
bring this control.

Fitts also points out that since our country consumes 25 percent of
the world’s oil, we can’t lecture other countries on the need to
conserve. But we can lead by example.

Rationing could give us some short-term breathing space as we labor
to find alternatives for the long haul. Yes, it is a political hot
potato, but isn’t it time to at least bring it to the table for
discussion?

HARRIET KEYSERLING
Beaufort

Mike was also referring to my enthusiasm for the idea floated by such disparate voices as Charles Krauthammer, Tom Friedman and Jim Hoagland, advocating a huge increase in the federal gas tax to take the already uncomfortably high gasoline pump prices high enough to depress demand. This would in turn create an oversupply, driving down prices. But (at least in the variant I like), you’d keep the tax rate up and use it additional for such sensible things as reducing the deficit, paying for a Manhattan/Apollo-style project to find and develop viable alternatives to petroleum, and pay for other aspects of our underfunded war — you know, like, put enough troops into Iraq and Afghanistan to get the job done. And note that I call military operations "other aspects" of the war. Reducing our energy dependence and taming deficits are as important to our strategic position as our ability to project force.

Oh, yes: Krauthammer would use the revenue to cut some other tax. But he has to say that; he’s a neocon.

Former Rep. Keyserling’s idea is even better in one respect — everyone would share the pain. With a high tax, the rich would keep on driving Hummers, and the poor would have a lot of trouble getting to work. The main benefit would occur among the middle class, who would make the choice of driving less and, when they bought a car, buying a much more fuel-efficient one. With rationing, everyone would be limited in their consumption. And it would be a more overt, deliberate way of saying, "We’re all in this together, and we’re doing something about it together," rather than letting the market pressure of high prices sort things out.

But then, it wouldn’t produce the revenue. So I qualify my flippant remark to Mike: The higher tax still might be better.

‘Go for it’ column

Bulb_011_1Energy independence?
We only have to decide to go for it

    “From now on we live in a world where man has walked on the moon. It’s not a miracle. We just decided to go.”
            — Tom Hanks, as Astronaut
            Jim Lovell in “Apollo 13

By Brad Warthen
Editorial Page Editor
I REMEMBER when this country would “just decide to go” and do something that had never been done — something so hard that it seemed impossible — and then just go.
    I was not yet 16 when men first stepped into the gray talcum of Tranquillity Base, and I didn’t know that I was living through the last days of the age of heroic national effort. I thought the muscular, confident idealism of World War II veterans such as John Kennedy was the norm. JFK said let’s go to the moon. It didn’t matter that nothing like it had ever been done, or that the technologies had not yet been invented. We just said OK, let’s do it.
    We built rockets. Brave men stepped forward to sit atop them in hissing, flashing, buzzing, wired-up sardine cans. Slide-ruler nerds who feared no challenge designed all the gadgets that went into the rockets and made them fly true. The rest of us paid the astronomical bills, and suspended our lives to watch each launch, in fuzzy black-and-white. We held our breaths together as though we were the ones waiting to be blasted to glory, live or die.
    And in a sense, we were. That was us. We were there.
    Why did we stop doing things like that? Where did we lose the confidence? When did we lose interest in working together? How did we lose the will?
    Was it the bitter end of Vietnam, which caused us to swear off fighting for justice beyond our borders for a generation? Was it Watergate, which ended common trust in leadership? (I watched “All the President’s Men” with my children recently, and to help them fully appreciate the suspense, I had to stop the disc and try to explain a time in which most people could not imagine the president of the United States would really do such a thing.)
    Was it the end of National Service, which gave rise to a generation that had never pulled together in common cause, and couldn’t even imagine doing so? Was it the “I got mine” hypergreed of the ’80s and ’90s, which made shared sacrifice passe?
    I don’t know. Maybe all of the above. I do know I’m tired of it. I miss the country I used to live in.
    That country would have stayed united for more than a few weeks after 9/11. It would have rolled up its sleeves and sacrificed to make itself economically independent of Mideast regimes that currently have no motivation to change the conditions that produce suicide bombers.
    But we don’t volunteer for that today, and “leaders” don’t dare suggest it.
    What got me started on all this? Lonnie Carter, president of Santee Cooper, said several things last week that sent my thoughts down these paths. He got me thinking how easy it would be for this nation to move toward energy independence, reduce greenhouse gases and even save money. It wouldn’t even be hard, or require sacrifice or inventiveness. We have the tools. It’s a matter of attitude.
    Mr. Carter showed us one of those curlicue fluorescent light bulbs. Big deal, I thought. I’ve got a few of those at home; my wife bought them. They look goofy, and don’t fit into some of our smaller fixtures.
    But Mr. Carter said that while such a bulb costs a couple of bucks more, it uses only 30 percent of the energy to produce the same light, and lasts 10 times as long. That one “60-watt” bulb (really only 15) would save you $53 before it gave out.
    Think how much energy we could save if all of us bought them. The things are already on the store shelves, but most of us bypass them for the old unreliables. It’s a “matter of changing our habits,” Mr. Carter said.
    How about renewable energy? Mr. Carter said utilities already offer that option to customers. But while 40 percent say they would pay a little more for such greener, smarter energy, only 1 percent actually do when it comes time to check that box on the bill.
    Attitude again.
    Then there’s nuclear power. “If our country is interested in energy independence and affecting climate change,” said Mr. Carter, “nuclear is the best option.” It’s clean, it’s efficient, and we don’t have to buy the fuel from lunatics.
    The government is even offering incentives to build the new generation of super-safe plants. But there’s still an attitude problem, as evidenced in the approval process. Santee Cooper plans to build two such plants. Just getting approval will take until 2010, so the plants can’t produce power before 2015. We managed to go from rockets that always blew up to “The Eagle has landed” in less time than that. And this time, we already have the technology.
    “We need all due diligence,” said Mr. Carter. “But we don’t need to drag our feet.”
    Still worried about spent fuel? “We know how to handle it safely,” he said. We’ve been doing so for 50 years. We also know how to put it away permanently; it’s “just a policy issue.”
If we could take such obvious steps, maybe we could then start taking the “tough” ones.
    Maybe we could even put the SUVs up on blocks and reduce our gasoline consumption to the point that Big Oil — and maybe even Washington — would see that they ought to invest some real effort in developing hydrogen, or biofuels, or whatever it takes.
    Did you know that Brazil expects to achieve energy independence this year? Maybe it has become the kind of country we used to be — the kind of country we could be again.
It just takes the right attitude.

Sunday’s Iraq war column

Iraq_mosque_1

Iraq: Why we’re there,
why we must stay

By Brad Warthen
Editorial Page Editor
I WAS BRIEFLY taken aback when a colleague reminded me that we were coming up on the third anniversary of “the war.”
    I thought we passed the fourth one last September. Within days after 9/11, I turned a file drawer over to “War,” and started filling it with articles, maps, photos and other items relating to “Afghanistan,” “Arabs,” “Britain,” “Bush,” “Civil Liberties,” “Iraq,” “Islam,” “Mideast,” etc. In my e-mail files, there are 27 folders under “War.” “Iraq” is but one.
    Then I realized the other editor meant the Iraq campaign, dating from the 2003 invasion. I felt pretty thick. That was a huge milestone, worth addressing prominently. This war’s heaviest fighting,Antiwar2jpgpart and America’s greatest losses (since the one-day losses of 9/11), have been on that front. So last Sunday’s editorial took stock of where Iraq stands, three years on.
    Today, after seeing, hearing and reading an avalanche of commemorative rhetoric from all sides, I address it again.

Lever of change
    The war that began on 9/11/01 — that is, the long, asymmetrical war on the West that we Americans first fully recognized that day — was one we did not choose.
    Maybe that’s why we had neglected for so long to connect the dots between the USS Cole and Al-Qaida, Afghanistan and Osama bin Laden, bin Laden and our retreat from Somalia, Somalia and poverty, poverty and tyranny, oil and U.S. support for oppressive regimes, those regimes and radical Islam, Islamists and terror.
    The invasion of Iraq, as a critical element of this war, was a fight that we chose, as critics keepIraq_saddam saying — but only in a sense. Iraq was where we decided to insert the lever with which we would attempt to turn back half a century of Near East politics and policies.
    The fact that Iraq was the likeliest place to insert it was not our choice. It was Saddam Hussein’s. He invaded Kuwait, which caused us to lead a coalition to throw him out in 1991. He then violated, for 12 years, the terms established as the price of remaining in power. He shot at American aircraft. He defied the United Nations again in 2002, when he was told that his one chance to stay in power was full cooperation. (He also — although this is incidental to my point — was the one who paid bounties to the families of Palestinian suicide bombers.)
    The United States — and Britain, Spain, Italy, Portugal, the Netherlands, Poland, Norway, Denmark (most of Europe, other than France and Germany) and about two dozen other countries — decided to take action.

About the WMD
    And yes, pretty much all of those nations, and the countries that refused to participate (publicly), Iraq_brit_1believed Saddam still had weapons of mass destruction. So did his own generals, who were counting on it. He did a wonderful impersonation of a man with something to hide, when all he was still hiding was the fact that they were gone.
    I never thought his WMD programs were the best reason to invade. I thought he had them, but I doubted they were an immediate threat. His behavior on the subject gave the coalition additional justification to take action, but it never really moved me. I preferred the other big one the Bush administration talked about in 2002 — regime change. That, too, was fully justified, by Saddam’s behavior over the previous 12 years.
    The idea, which has been iterated over and over by everyone from the president to Thomas Friedman, was to start a sort of reverse domino effect — to drop a big rock into the pond, and generate ripples of liberal democracy that would lap against, and erode, the status quo in Syria, Lebanon, the Palestinian territories, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Libya and, if we got lucky, maybe even Iran. That process has at least begun in every one of those places except Iran — and don’t give up on Iran.
    In some ways Iraq wasn’t the place one would choose to drop the rock. It was profoundly, violently Balkanized and, like the country that spawned that adjective, had been held together by force. But it was the one place where the reigning despot had provided justification to step in.

Why take action?
    Why drop a rock at all? Why disturb the status quo? Hadn’t we done all we could to prop it up for decades? Wasn’t that why the president’s Dad stood by and let Iraqi rebels he had stirred up be slaughtered (possibly the most shameful thing my country has done in my lifetime) — because creating a “power vacuum” in Baghdad wouldn’t be “prudent”?
    Absolutely. We had propped up an intolerable status quo in the Mideast for decades. Why? To keep the oil flowing. I am dumbfounded when a war protester says Iraq is about oil. The first Gulf War was about oil; this is about the opposite.
    This one is about knocking the oil barrel over to see if we can’t get something better thanIraq_girls_1 oppression, frustration, hatred and terrorism to flow out of it. It was never, ever going to be easy. It remains hard enough that fewer and fewer Americans see how we can succeed. The challenges do remain daunting, but enormous progress has been made — often in spite of the Bush administration’s decisions. We’ve had highly successful elections — the last one with broad Sunni support — and internal security is increasingly in Iraqi hands (which is why U.S. casualties have recently slowed).
    Does forming a new government not present a huge hurdle? It does, but no more so than challenges already met. We have made it this far in spite of never having enough troops to provide the proper level of security.
    However hard it is, we have no choice. We’ve knocked over the barrel, and we have to deal with it.

Many faults, one virtue
    President Bush drives me nuts. His refusal to transform our energy strategies to make us stronger iIraq_abu_ghraibn fighting this war is unconscionable. And don’t get me started on his undermining our international financial position, or his failure to fire Donald “We’ve got enough troops” Rumsfeld after Abu Ghraib.
    But this deeply flawed man has one saving grace: When those planes flew into those towers, he got it. He knew that this was no longer his father’s world. He still sees it all rather hazily, but he sees it. And he’s stubborn as a stone. He will not give in to ripples of panic spreading through the electorate, not even (I fervently hope) to save his own political party.
    When he pointed out last week that pulling back in Iraq would be up to future presidents, and future Iraqi governments, I could have hugged him if he’d been closer. It was about time that he said what I wrote the very week American boots hit Iraqi sand — that he had crossed his Rubicon and taken the rest of us, including his successors, with him.
    It still stuns me that people can even consider pulling out, or ask when we will pull out — this year, next year? What utter madness.

The long haul
    If we did that any time within the foreseeable future, our nation would lose all credibility. No country, including our worst critics, would believe in American resolve within our lifetimes. Nor would we. It would be much worse than our global fecklessness after Vietnam. When the day came (and it would come) that the world needed America to lead it in standing up to some obvious, World War-sized threat — say, a belligerent China or a nuclear-missile-launching Iran — no one would trust us not to leave them in the lurch. Nor should they.
    Just as bad, we would have no credibility with terrorists. When the United States ran from Somalia after losing 18 men right on the verge of accomplishing the mission, Osama bin Laden drew certain conclusions about our resolve in the face of violence. The result was 9/11. What might he, and his millions of imitators, conclude if we ran from this exponentially greater mission? What horrors would they be emboldened to unleash if we were foolish enough to think we had the power to decide when it’s over?
    We can’t leave, folks.
    Even if the insurgencies ended today, we couldn’t leave. Even if the Sunni and Shiite gunmen turned on the foreign jihadists and drove them out tomorrow, then made friends with each other the next day, we couldn’t leave. Even if the hardheaded politicians in Baghdad formed a Madisonian democracy next week, we’d have to stay. It would be a long, long time before an infant republic could keep from being devoured by Iran from the east, Turkey from the north and Syria from the west. Our republic had oceans to keep it safe until it was big and strong; Iraq doesn’t.
    As daunting as the situation is, there is only one way to be certain to lose: Give up. We’ve alreadyBush9 made this a lot harder than it has to be by showing doubt. Every American who says we shouldn’t be there makes the terrorists a bit bolder, and the would-be Iraqi democrats a bit more afraid to risk their lives on our assurances.
    From his tax cuts to his Medicare drug plan to his threat to veto anti-torture legislation, there’s not much that President Bush has to sell that I would want to buy. But I pray to God and to my fellow Americans that he succeeds in selling the product he was taking door-to-door last week. The alternatives are too horrible.

Why don’t we just surrender, Sarge?

The subject of personal ownership of guns came up during the discussion on a recent post, and one respondent wrote, "Never had a gun, don’t want one, lotsa people get shot with their own gun…."

Well, as I was reminded over the weekend, you don’t actually have to shoot yourself to get hurt firing a gun. Or — forgive me — I should say, a rifle.

Somehow, I had gotten to my current ripe old age without ever having fired a high-powered rifle. I had experience with pistol (can’t hit a durn’ thing with ’em), rifle (which I’m not bad at, for a civilian), and shotgun (which you don’t have to be all that good with to hit something).

But when I say "rifle," I mean .22s. Anybody can hit a tin can with a .22, I suppose.

But Saturday, I was visiting kin up in Marlboro County, and my cousin had a new .30-06 rifle he wanted to try out. So we went out to some land belonging to a friend of my uncle’s, where there was an open field with about a 10-foot embankment of earth piled up at one end of it. That’s where we put the paper target.

My cousin shot first, it being his rifle. It was a short, carbine-like weapon with a sort of built-in clip arrangement on the bottom. You swing out the clip thing, load in three rounds in staggered formation, and swing it back up until it snaps into place under the bolt-action breech.

Now, I had been thinking ".30 caliber — that’s not all that much more than a .22." Maybe, if you’re talking about an M-16 kind of .223 round. See, I had reckoned without the enormous shell behind the modest slug — one of those things about three inches long, with most of its length looking to be about twice the diameter of the slug. That’s a lot of powder. That’s a big bullet.

When the first shot was fired, I went straight to my car, opened my briefcase (which is filled with junk for all sorts of contingencies), and pulled out some foam earplugs. Wow.

I had to hurry to get back to Columbia, so I asked to go next, after my cousin had fired a couple of clips. He handed it over, showed me how the first cartridge went in, and I managed to insert the other two of those artillery shells without embarrassing myself. I asked where the safety was, and fumbled with it a bit.

My cousin had noted what a light weapon it was, and he was right. A little too light, I believe. I assumed what I hoped was a good standing position, my feet forming a line about 30 degrees from the direction of fire. I drew it up firmly to my shoulder, aimed the best I could (it was a kind of sight I’d never seen before, and pulled the trigger.

BLAM! The thing slammed into my bony shoulder like somebody hitting me with a baseball bat, while the barrel jerked way up and a little off to the right.

It hurt like an SOB. My immediate thought was, "I do NOT want to do this again." But rather than wimp out, I brought the barrel back down and got ready to fire again. I really tensed up for the second shot, making sure it was tight against my shoulder, and gripping firmly with my left hand to keep the muzzle pointed downrange. It didn’t work. It still kicked like a donkey, and ended up pointed at the sky.

I only have to get through one more round. This time I forced myself to relax, to hold it a little more lightly, and to remember to squeeze the trigger with even pressure throughout my hand, rather than jerk it. I missed the target by about a foot.

My second had missed, too. But miracle of miracles, my first shot — before I knew what I was in for — had actually grazed the black center of the target. And — ahem — mine was the first one to do so.

But I got to thinking later: The M1 Garand fired more or less the same ammunition, from a clip of eight, I believe. And the M-1 Carbine was pretty light (although I think it also fired lighter ammo; somebody tell me if I’m wrong). The average WWII Army recruit, according to Stephen Ambrose, was:

… five feet eight inches tall, weighed 144 pounds, had a thirty-three-and-a-half-inch chest, and a thirty-one-inch waist.

How on Earth did a little guy like that (a thirty-three-and-a-half-inch chest!!!) fire clip after clip of that ammunition and still have use of his right arm? Sure, they were half my age (an average of 26), and they probably knew some trick that I don’t know about the proper way to seat the butt against the shoulder, and the Garand was heavier than the carbine, but still. It makes me respect those guys — all of whom have been my heroes my whole life — even more.

Maybe I wasn’t holding it right; I don’t know. But if it hurt like that, after a day of fighting through the hedgerows, when the time came that the sergeant told us to dig in for the night, I think I might have said, "Sarge, why don’t we just let the Germans have France?"

Of course, knowing the way soldiers gripe, I’m sure a lot of guys did say that. But they still dug in, and got up and fought again the next day.

Dances with Pretension

Yes, Mark, of course we despise "Dances With Wolves!" It’s pretentious, silly, boring, condescending, tedious and intellectually offensive. The worst thing about it was that Hollywood thought it was profound, and that just confirms so much about Hollywood, doesn’t it?

You see, this "epic" — which I believe lasted about 14 hours, but it may have been longer — was intended to teach Deep Lessons to us hicks out here in Flyover Land all about the Noble Red Man. It seems that Hollywood had just discovered the American Indian, and learned that he was treated badly by the white man, and was going to teach all of us about it, because of COURSE we couldn’t have heard about it out here.

Never mind that the theme of the Noble Savage had been done to death in the early 19th century by James Fenimore Cooper, as any literate person (a category that, as near as I can tell, does not involve anyone in Hollywood) would know.

Or that the theme had become so passe that Mark Twain brutally satirized it later in the century. And remember, Twain was a very liberal, free-thinking sort, but he could not abide pretension.

Or that Hollywood — John Ford, no less — had decades previously given the subject serious, respectable treatment, in a way that might make even John Wayne feel guilty about the white man’s role.

Or that Hollywood, in a more thoughtful era, had even satirized that. In fact, let’s consider "Little Big Man" for a moment. It had fun with almost every Western cliche you can think of, including that of the noble, mystical Red Man (and yes, that was, is, and always will be a cliche, which is my point here — the people making "Dances with Wolves" were not sophisticated enough to know that; they actually thought they were breaking new ground, and that is what is so embarrassing and offensive about it).

"Little Big Man" paid the American Indian the compliment of treating him as a human being, rather than as a stereotype, positive or negative. Director Arthur Penn had the good sense to give his Indians — who, appropriately enough, referred to themselves collectively as "the Human Beings" — the full range of human attributes. They were brave, silly, wise, stupid, tragic, comic and so forth.

The best bit in the whole movie was when Chief Dan George, the wise, earthy Grandfather, decided it was "a good day to die," and went out and lay down to do just that. Of course, the viewer thinks, "Wow, Indians can really do that? I guess it’s because they’re just so much more attuned to the universe than we are." A few moments later, raindrops hit his apparently lifeless face. He opens his eyes and asks Dustin Hoffman whether he is dead yet. A relieved Hoffman says no, so Grandfather gets up with the younger man’s help, shrugs and says something to the effect of, well, maybe some other day would be a better day to die. Or so I remember; I don’t have it at hand to check.

It was so down-to-earth, real, fallible and human. And for those reasons, Grandfather actually is noble — unlike the cardboard cutouts of "Dances With Wolves."

Do you see what I’m saying?

As for "Apocalypse Now" — I’ll deal with that, at least in passing, in my next post. As it happens, my thoughts on it are sort of the opposite of Dave’s.

Hubba-hubba on the obit page

I was really glad to see our front page follow up on the death of the former pin-up girl out of Myrtle Beach.

My eyes really lit up when I saw the image at rightJewel_evans_2 Wednesday. I’ve been in this business more than three decades now, and I had never seen anything like that on an obit page. My first reaction was, well, sort of like in those old cartoons, when Bugs Bunny’s or Porky Pig’s face turns into a reasonable facsimile of the Big Bad Wolf, complete with drawn-out whistle, eyes bugging, and tongue hanging.

My second reaction was, "What happened? She looks plenty healthy to me."

My third was to realize that this was a 1940s style pinup, of the type that used to appear as nose art on WWII bombers — an art form I’ve always appreciated. I wasn’t alive then, but somehow my tastes — with regard to some things — seem to be very compatible with that period. Some of my ideas do, as well. I was extremely disappointed
when 9-11 failed to produce the kind of nonpartisan national unity that Pearl Harbor did. I’ve always wanted to experience that.

Anyway, back to the pinup: My next reaction was to go to the Web and see whether this woman really had been a big-time pinup. In my haste, I typed "’Jewel Evans’ pinup" instead of using what was apparently her maiden name, "Jewel FLOWERS." The first search pulled up an entirely different sort of image, the kind I won’t link to on a family blog.

I did find her, in connection with Vargas-style artist Rolf Armstrong. The image reproduced above seems to have been the favorite, although others can be found.

If I had been one of those WWII soldiers (something which, if reincarnation is for real, I probably was) who wrote to her, I probably would have told her I liked her better than Betty Grable. I think that’s because Betty’s most famous pose tends to call attention to assets beyond her legs, while Jewel’s is all about her pins (well, and her face, which was also more attractive than Betty’s). You see, I disagree entirely with Jerry Seinfeld, who famously said:

"A leg man? Why would I be a leg man? I don’t need legs. I have legs."

Not like those you don’t, Jerry.

A U.S. commitment can work

A back-and-forth discussion on the subject of Bosnia among readers responding (initially, anyway) to a recent post reminded me of this piece from The New York Times, which I meant to draw attention to it at the time, but got busy with other things. Unfortunately, you can’t read it online now without paying for it.

The thrust of it was that no, the situation in Bosnia isn’t perfect — far from it — but we accomplished our goal there. Our goal was modest by the standard of what we’re trying to do in Iraq: We just wanted to stop the killing (at least, that was the goal once we finally decided to do something). We accomplished that.

The author, Roger Cohen, called the Dayton accords signed in 1995 “a messy, and unedifying, end to a conflict” but went on to say that “the Dayton agreement had one conspicuous merit: it stopped the killing that had taken about 200,000 lives. The quieted guns were a tribute to what American power and diplomacy can achieve.”

Note the word, “diplomacy.” The piece stresses the importance of working in concert with powerful allies, and draws some obvious contrasts with what has happened in Iraq. That’s the first of “two lessons” he says the Bosnia experience holds for Iraq.

“The second,” he wrote, “is that a 10-year American military commitment can bear fruit.”

Now note “10-year.” Also note “commitment.” The result is that eventually, one can draw down the troop deployment — we only have 200 in Bosnia now. But note again, all you impatient sorts: “10-year.”

Anyway, the part I liked best about the piece was the headline: “Lessons From Bosnia, 10 Years On: A U.S. Commitment Can Work.” I saw that as a fitting rebuke to the isolationists and do-nothings on both the left and the right.

An issue for the Critter Committee

Finally, one or two people who actually like my idea of a political party for the rest of us responded to my post on the subject. And Paul DeMarco even gave serious thought to my question of what sort of animal should symbolize our party. I was impressed that he came up with one that was actually high on my own list: the owl. As he put it, the owl is "Quiet, wise, but no-nonsense and a swift and skillfulOwl predator when the need arises."

Good idea. I’m not ready to settle on it, but it’s a good start.

Of course, as surely as we will hear stories of the Pilgrims and Squanto on this day, we had an item in the paper reminding us that Benjamin Franklin advocated the wild turkey as our national symbol. I think he was serious about that one, but you never know; ol’ Ben was a bit of a raconteur, and may have been sending us up.

On the subject of birds, I had already thought about the one that won out over the turkey. The bald eagle would be ideal in some ways. First, it would say we align ourselves with the nation itself, rather than with any ideological segment. Also, the traditional rendition of it, grasping the arrows with one foot and the olive branch with the other, would say that on the federal level at least, we concern ourselves with the main business of the national government — our conduct with other nations. (Yes, Bald_eagleI know it’s supposed to regulate interstate commerce and such, but one thing I want to do is distance ourselves from some of the sillier battles that the donkeys and the elephants have over domestic Kulturkampf issues that aren’t properly any of the federal government’s business — such as manger scenes in town squares, and comatose patients in Florida.)

In some ways, though, the eagle is limited. For one thing, it always looks fierce. I like the idea of a mascot that can look fierce when it needs to, but the eagle doesn’t seem capable of any other expression. Also — and this will seem silly, but remember that I work every day with a cartoonist for a living — I can’t see the eagle working well in political cartoons. Maybe that’s just because I haven’t seen it done enough yet. Robert Ariail could most likely anthropomorphize the noble bird into characters just as hilariously human as his donkeys and elephants, but I have trouble picturing it.

Maybe we should look beyond birds. Birds are good, given that the United States is the world’s first and greatest air power, and our party would be open to the judicious use of that power. But as I think on cartoons — and we need to be open to being lampooned — I’m thinking four feet might work better.

Of course, you can come up with an objection to almost any symbol:

  • The Owl: Never available in the light of day. Too close an association with Hooters.
  • The Turkey: Essentially American, and admirable in many ways (very tasty, for instance), but too ugly and ungainly — not to mention that "turkey" has unfortunately come to be a putdown in modern slang.
  • The Eagle: Drawbacks listed above. One other: Too obvious.
  • The Bull Moose: Already taken, and proven to be electorally unsuccessful, even with a strong candidate.
  • The Bison: VERY American, but too, well, bovine. Any animal that’s so easy to creep up on and kill in such large numbers to the point that you have to make special efforts to keep it from going extinct is problematic (ditto the eagle, come to think of it).
  • The Lion: Not indigenous, and too associated with royalty. We could go with the cougar, but I’m just not a cat person. I like dogs.
  • The Dog:  Noble, loyal, friendly but willing and able to tear your head off if you mean to do ill to anyone or anything that it has taken under its protection. Note that I’m not talking Chihuahuas or French poodles, but real dogs — preferably a big mutt (symbolizing the melting pot), with some retriever, some setter, some shepherd, some chow, and some plain old hound dog. Probably can’t be a yaller dog, because that would be encroaching on the Democrats’ territory, and it is too suggestive of blind party loyalty, which we would abhor.

And there are other drawbacks to the dog — for instance, the fact that it would make us an object of contempt among Arabs and some other cultures, and we’ve got enough problems over there as things stand. But the dog has promise.

Ultimately, I remain stuck on this one. I guess, once we get this party organized (but not too organized, because that would be unlike us; we should strike a good medium between the Democrats and Republicans on that point), we’ll have to send this issue to our Critter Committee.

Or, we could just leave it to the cartoonists to come up with their own way of symbolizing us. They’ll do that anyway, unless we propose one that they find irresistible.

Anyway, enjoy your turkey today. And think no political thoughts while doing so, but remember to thank the One from whom all such blessings flow.

Bison_2

‘Band of Brothers’ to go to Iraq

I had thought that this was good news out of Iraq this week, and that this was even better.

CurraheeBut I probably took more heart from this news than from anything I’ve seen in a while. I realize the other things are probably more substantially significant, but there’s something reassuring on a gut level about the 506th PIR being resurrected, even if it isn’t technically a Parachute Infantry Regiment any more.

That unit distinguished itself to such a degree in Normandy, Holland, Bastogne and Germany in 1944-45 that the young men who haveCurrahee2_1 adopted "Currahee" as their battle cry (after the foothill near Toccoa, Ga., that the original soldiers of the 506th had to run up and down — three miles each way — as a routine, daily part of their initial training in 1942) have a tremendous tradition of honor to live up to. From what I’ve seen from our soldiers and Marines in the field in this war, I’m sure they’ll meet the challenge, and old heroes such as Dick Winters and "Wild Bill" Guarnere will be proud to call them brothers