Gerald Ford and the eve of self-destruction

It tells you something that I know more about James Brown than I do Gerald R. Ford, who passed away December 26--Boxing Day in England--at the age of 93.

Many teens shrug off politics as part of a general antipathy toward anything existing outside their peer group. I was 17 on August 9, 1974, the day Ford was sworn in as the 38th president of the United States following Richard Nixon's resignation, and I loathed politics. I was much more into pursuits of self-gratification that, with time, have a habit of devolving into pursuits of self-destruction. I had already tried marijuana, drank Rheingold Chug-a-Mugs, was smoking cigarettes regularly, and never met a drug, short of heroin, I wouldn’t sample.

One could argue that Nixon’s political career devolved from one of self-gratification in his service to the public to one of self-destruction in his abuse of presidential authority. And in that sense, our respective life paths wouldn’t have been entirely dissimilar.

But I’d never say that the events of Watergate and all that followed had any direct impact on my behavior. It was the 1970s after all, a time of rampant hedonism and “It’s your thing, do what you wanna do.” It was the culture that impressed this impressionable teen. (The death of a close friend from a rare blood disease didn't help any either.)

In retrospect, I’m taken aback at how little these words, spoken by Gerald Ford at his inaugural, meant to me at the time:

"My fellow Americans, our long national nightmare is over. Our Constitution works. Our great republic is a government of laws and not of men. Here, the people rule."

Many newspapers reproduced that quote this week in obituaries for the late president. How 2006 not to include these words that immediately followed:

"But there is a higher power, by whatever name we honor him, who ordains not only righteousness but love, not only justice but mercy.

"As we bind up the internal wounds of Watergate, more painful and more poisonous than those of foreign wars, let us restore the Golden Rule to our political process and let brotherly love purge our hearts of suspicion and of hate."

Pundits and commentators say Ford’s defining moment was his pardon of Richard Nixon, an act of selflessness in service to the perceived long-term welfare of the country that would cost Ford himself the presidency. The American public could not forgive Ford his singular act, a refusal that I believe contributed mightily to the momentum that has evolved our culture from the naive and often dangerous hedonism of the 1970s to our current climate of irony, self-loathing, and despair. Gone forever, it seems, is any shared notion of selflessness before a higher power. And that may well be what's at the root of our widespread national malaise.

James Brown, 1933-2006

“In funk, it's all about the one."

So said an aging R&B musician as we talked music at an outdoor bar in eastern Long Island about 10 summers ago, and suddenly James Brown's music made complete sense to me.

Of course, you'd have to be a eunuch not to know viscerally that the grunting, growling Brown, who died on Christmas Day at 73, was all about sex sex sex. But the idea of his band both arousing and enhancing his supercharged performances with the simple device of exploding each one count was a revelation to me.

Godfather of soul? Not when the music is about the one. In that realm, James Brown was and is the undisputed king of funk.

Brown was also a notorious workaholic. He rehearsed many long hours with the band, fine tuning the interplay of the horns and rhythm section and insisting on strict precision in time. The result is music that unleashes the sweaty power of the male id but with a wicked sense of restraint.

Check out Brown and his band on "Get Up (I Feel Like Being a) Sex Machine," "Make It Funky," "Super Bad," and "Hot Pants." That ain't just sex, that's unrepentant Alpha Male Sex.

God let ye get funky in heaven, James Brown. I can't imagine you ever resting in peace.

Xmas through the iPod

Each night I pray
That no one will steal her heart away
I can't wait until that lucky day
When I marry sweet Lorraine
--"Sweet Lorraine," Mitchell Parish & Cliff Burwell

I'd swear my iPod reads my mind.

This afternoon during a workout at the Tarrytown Y I was thinking about my mother and late father when lo and behold, what comes streaming through the earphones but Satchmo singing about “Sweet Lorraine.”

When I hear that song I think of my father as a young man listening to it on the radio while lying on a cot in Bungay, England, in between B-24 bomber missions with the U.S. 8th Army Air Force during World War II. My mother’s name is Lorraine, and that period was right at the beginning of my parents’ courtship, when her letters would arrive postmarked Ozone Park, Queens.

No one ever did steal away Lorraine's heart, and not long after the war ended so too did my father's wait for "that lucky day." Today, almost 60 years later, the extended family of Louis and Lorraine grows and grows.

Nat King Cole recorded a smooth-as-silk version of “Sweet Lorraine” with his trio in 1941, and that’s what I envision my father as a young lieutenant hearing over the American Forces Network.

But Louie Armstrong’s later-career take in 1957, featuring Oscar Peterson’s piano and Louie’s pitch-perfect rasp, really reminds me of the Dad I knew—back home in New York and feeling lucky to be alive, older, heavier, a father, louder, happier, and still in love with Lorraine.

The time has come to think of old Joe Bones running down a snowy lane in cyberspace, a 21st-century Uncle Billy screaming at the top of his lungs:

“Merry Christmas Mom, Tom, Paul, and Jim!”

“Merry Christmas Tree, Bobby, Melissa, Jayden, Amy, and Brian!”

“Merry Christmas Louie, Brooks, and Joey! Merry Christmas Jessie, Dan, and Brodie, the newest bouncing arrival! Merry Christmas Lizzie, Josh, Aiden, and Owen!”

And last but not least, to the rest of the world and beyond:

“Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Season's Greetings, Humbug, take your pick! The choice is yours in the good old U.S. and A.“

“Remember the troops!”

Never say never

My endorsement for president in 2008 goes to:

"You."

OK, so I lied. I’m not outright endorsing anyone. Yet. But allow me to submit this longshot for your consideration. Read the whole smart interview.

In an on-line story in today’s New York Daily News, Condoleezza Rice says the country is ready for a black president.

As Hillary marshals her considerable forces for a campaign that could very well culminate in a Clinton-Obama ticket for the Dems, and as Rudy, McCain, and Romney prepare to lock tusks for the GOP nomination, I suggest we begin applying to each of these politicians the same questions Dr. Rice says Americans will use to judge the first successful black candidate who would be president:

"Do I agree with this person? Do I share this person's basic values? Am I comfortable that this person is going to make decisions when I'm not in the room that are very consequential? ... Does this person add up to someone who I want to see in my home every night on TV and who's going to fit in the Oval Office?"

I would also, for starters, add these:

How will onetime-hawk-turned-leftist-apologist Hillary work to protect our national security? Platitudes aside, what does Barack Obama believe in? Would voters view America’s Mayor—a Republican with the social values of a liberal New Yorker—as a viable alternative to Hillary? Can John McCain garner the support of conservatives who are largely suspect of his maverick ways? Would McCain, the widely respected military hero, perhaps make a better secretary of defense? At 72, would he be fit for 4 years in the White House during a time of war? Is Mitt Romney too conservative? Would a Romney presidency only exacerbate divisiveness on Capitol Hill?

The Daily News story says that Condi has “adamantly ruled out a candidacy [for president] after she leaves government.” But is “adamantly” perhaps too strong a word?

On the heels of her remark that the country is ready for a black president, Rice provided this response to a question about a theoretical Colin Powell candidacy:

"I'm not going to give Colin any advice, and he's not going to give me any advice on this one."

I’d agree the odds are still against it. But never say never when it comes to a “Condi for President” campaign. Stranger things have happened in American politics.

Sleepy Hollow at Christmastime

I took my now-ancient digital camera out last night and scoured the neighborhood in search of the perfect photograph, something that I thought would capture the mood of Sleepy Hollow, New York, at Christmastime--at least through the prism of my experience here. The photo above captures it pretty nicely.

I've closed my business for the holidays beginning today, so look for more frequent dispatches through New Year's. In tomorrow's post I will make an early endorsement for president in 2008 (hint: it ain't Hillary or Obama, and it ain't McCain or Rudy).

A Christmas card for New York

So what do you do on a Sunday in December that feels like April?

Go get the car washed!

Which is exactly what I did today, among other sundry chores. The folks at Mr. Bubbles'—don’t you just love that name?—always do a great job, and now my 2003 red-and-white Mini Cooper looks like she did the day she left the showroom.

That is, if you don't look too closely at the roof. No car escapes 2 years of parking garages in New York City without scars, and mine is no exception. Tilt your head a certain way and you can see a row of small dents on the roof over the driver's seat. I was always puzzled how they got there until one day another urban parking veteran told me, "The attendants park the cars so close together that sometimes they have to walk on the roofs to get where they're going."

That's the way it goes living in the Big Apple. No person or thing escapes the city unscathed. And New York is utterly remorseless about it. In a strange way, that's one of the things I miss most about living there. When you’re a resident you learn fairly quickly that if you can't roll with the punches, dust yourself off and get right back in the ring, you’re not going to survive because no one is going to string up a safety net for you (excluding, of course, the trust fund crowd). New York teaches you the hard and necessary truths of self-reliance. And those who choose to live there wear that lesson like a badge of honor. It’s part of the hard-won camaraderie all New Yorkers share.

The dents in the roof of my Mini aren’t the only things that got me thinking about the Big Town today. Right now I’m listening to a radio broadcast of Handel’s “Messiah,” live from Trinity Church in lower Manhattan, and it sounds bloody magnificent.

Yes, the city is of necessity an unforgiving place, but there’s grace there too. In the voices now singing Handel’s “Messiah.” In the rush of people moving through the main concourse of the always-majestic Grand Central Terminal at 8:33 AM. In the soup kitchens and homeless shelters where resident volunteers turn their concern into action. Even in the subways where just last week I saw an elderly man give up his seat for a young pregnant woman.

“No one has to tell me how I feel about this town,” Bob Dylan told the cheering crowd at Madison Square Garden in November 2001, during his first concert in New York City since 9/11. I know just what he meant. And it always comes back to remind me in December.

The evening walk

About a half hour ago I was sitting at my computer in a nasty, lethargic funk, not thinking I had the energy to post on the Dispatch and feeling sorry for myself about ever starting a business because here I am in hock up to my eyeballs and having to stockpile long hours now so I can afford to shutter the office for the week between Christmas and New Year’s when my industry is dead anyway.

Then I felt that warm, moist nose nudging my knee. One look and I knew. Quit yer complaining and get off yer duff, Bones. Your dog is telling you she has to go for a walk and your compliance is nonnegotiable.

So out the back door and down the driveway we went, into the Sleepy Hollow night. Ilsa the wonder dog has 3 distinct walking speeds, one each for the morning, afternoon, and evening jaunts. In the morning she’s her most hyper, pulling me like a sled dog on speed to Patriot’s Park for our usual game of fetch. In the afternoon she’s a bit mellower, allowing me to take the lead on excursions down Beekman Ave. toward the Hudson River and our ultimate destination, the Lighthouse Coffee Co., where I purchase a pick-me-up to go.

Evenings the pace slows to a crawl. The last walk of the day is really not about walking at all but rather about taking stock of where we are. Ilsa sniffs the ground intently and I draw slow, deep breaths of air. I survey the old Victorian and Gothic Revival houses on our street and then look out past the rooftops to the scattered lights on the hillside in the distance and finally on up to the stars, more visible here than they ever were in the city that never sleeps.

Tonight on our walk Ilsa sniffed the ground and I allowed my funk to take leave as I studied the outdoor Christmas displays on our block. White-wire-mesh deer figures strewn with white lights are popular this year. One guy with small children has gone all out with a cavalcade of Christmas figures on the front lawn and every tree, bush, and eave decked out in lights. The old man who always says hello has hung old green garlands and old red bows along the fence marking his property; outside his front door stand two tall plastic candles dating probably to the ‘50s but which still work. And near the corner, outside the oldest, most worn-down house on this block of old and worn houses, a single electronic star hangs suspended over the front porch, reminding me of home.

Crooners, croakers and self-loathers

For a small river town, Sleepy Hollow sure lights up at Christmastime. It’s really something to see the old 3-family houses in my neighborhood all festooned for the season. I must remember to take and post some pictures.

Last night the Town Tavern had its weekly karaoke night. A brick wall of a man named Adam bested the rest of the weekend crooners and croakers, in my humble opinion. He had down pat many of the vocal acrobatics used by today’s R&B singers, and his tone was spot on. It's too bad most of the patrons were too involved with their drinks to take notice. This guy could sing; I'm sure on that even Simon Cowell would agree. His one miscue came when, at my request, he ventured into Stevie Wonder territory. Adam’s range—as well as his girth—is more in the Barry White zone. What the hell was I thinking? Sorry about that, big guy.

I also owe Donald Rumsfeld an apology. In last Sunday's post I referred to his tenure as defense secretary in the past tense. My bad. His tenure doesn't end until Robert Gates officially replaces him on December 18.

Currently in Iraq visiting the troops one last time, Rumsfeld on Friday bade a public farewell to his cohorts at the Pentagon.

About Iraq and Afghanistan he had this to say: “We have every chance in the world of succeeding in both those countries, but only if we have the patience and only if we have the staying power.”

The press account to which I’ve linked also states he listed many achievements by the US military that occurred on his watch:

“They included coming to peoples' aid after the tsunami in the Indian Ocean, the earthquake in Pakistan and the hurricanes along the Gulf Coast; deploying ‘an initial missile defense system’; creating the Northern Command to ‘better protect the homeland’; conducting the largest-ever base closure and global force change; and operating the Guantanamo detention center for terrorist suspects in the face of ‘grossly uninformed and irresponsible charges.’”

His darkest day, he said, “was Abu Ghraib, seeing what went on there and feeling so deeply sorry that that happened.”

This is the man whose head the New York Times demanded—and got—on a platter. The same New York Times whose star columnist, Frank Rich, today opines: "By prescribing placebos, the Iraq Study Group isn’t plotting a way forward but delaying the recognition of our defeat."

Not too long ago reading that kind of statement in a major US newspaper would have shocked me. Not anymore. Now it’s just the latest example of an upside-down logic of postmodern America, one that crucifies its patriots while celebrating the truly treasonous.

What would we do without study groups?

There's a fast and bitter wind rattling the 100-year-old windows of this old Victorian by the Hudson; the digital clock on my iMac reads 11:57 PM.

It's been a long day. Twelve-hours-mostly-at-my-desk long. I'm pooped. Another hour and it's off to sleep.

Was anybody really surprised by the Iraq Study Group report this week? Situation nearly unsalvageable, one last chance, talk to Iran, offer Syria the Golan, light a match and get out by 2008.

Islamic fanatics run amok throughout the Middle East and the Iraq Study Group wants America to play the lovable loser.



FRIDAY MORNING UPDATE:

Well, it looks like the Clintons are on board for talks with Iran, a country known to be providing material for IEDs the likes of which killed Staten Island's own Sgt. Yevgeniy Ryndych in Iraq on Wednesday, the day the ISG report was released and the day before a Fed Ex package containing an engagement ring for his fiancee was to arrive.

About the latest round of "if not out of Iraq now then soon, and real soon," Sgt. Ryndych's younger brother, Ivan, yesterday said this to the New York Post:

"To me, it makes no sense . . . If you get out now, it would be telling the whole world you left and didn't succeed in anything."

Meanwhile, Dubya is sounding just the way I thought he would in these
remarks he made at a press conference yesterday with British Prime Minister Tony Blair:

"I understand how hard it is to prevail. But I also want the American people to understand that if we were to fail - and one way to assure failure is just to quit, is not to adjust, and say it's just not worth it - that failed policy will come to hurt generations of Americans in the future."

Reminds me of words written here not too long ago.

The Rumsfeld memo

I never really knew what to make of Donald Rumsfeld.

Equally detested by all sorts of liberals and conservatives. Arrogant, acerbic, stubborn, headstrong. Indeed, watching him interact with members of the press on television, I was often struck by the headmaster chastising his charges dynamic at work — and how the press routinely and sheepishly acceded to it.

I have to admit I was kind of in awe of the guy. I mean here you have someone of scary vitality for a man in his 70s. Razor sharp. Peerless devotion to his country. Impeccable work ethic in full display even right after the 9/11 attack on the Pentagon, when he rolled up his sleeves and assisted in the search for survivors.

Ultimately history will judge what kind of defense secretary Donald Rumsfeld was. Then we’ll see if the New York Times was correct in calling him as bad or worse than Robert S. McNamara of the Vietnam era. Or whether he was worthy of the praise of a Victor Hanson or an Austin Bay.

In the meantime, I find the Rumsfeld memo — leaked to the New York Times and published this weekend — interesting for several reasons.

According to the Times, the memo “acknowledged that the Bush administration’s strategy in Iraq was not working and called for a major course correction.”

The Times claims the memo “suggests frustration with the pace of turning over responsibility to the Iraqi authorities” and “calls for examination of ideas that roughly parallel troop withdrawal proposals presented by some of the White House’s sharpest Democratic critics.”

You can read the full text of the memo here.

You’ll note that nowhere does Rumsfeld call the situation in Iraq a “quagmire” a la Ted Kennedy et al. Nowhere does he call for a redeployment to Okinawa a la John Murtha. Nowhere does he call for engagement with Iran and Syria a la the pragmatic minds of the Iraq Study Group.

Instead what we get from Rumsfeld is a frank acknowledgment that “what U.S. forces are currently doing in Iraq is not working well enough or fast enough” and then 21 — count ‘em, 21 — “Illustrative New Courses of Action.” Fifteen of these he labels “Above the Line” and six “less attractive options.”

The one most closely resembling what many Democrats have proposed is this:

“Set a firm withdrawal date to leave. Declare that with Saddam gone and Iraq a sovereign nation, the Iraqi people can govern themselves. Tell Iran and Syria to stay out.”

You’ll note that this sits near the bottom of the less attractive options.

Among the “Above the Line” ideas is this:

“Stop rewarding bad behavior, as was done in Fallujah when they pushed in reconstruction funds, and start rewarding good behavior. Put our reconstruction efforts in those parts of Iraq that are behaving, and invest and create havens of opportunity to reward them for their good behavior. As the old saying goes, ‘If you want more of something, reward it; if you want less of something, penalize it.’ No more reconstruction assistance in areas where there is violence.”

And this:

“Position substantial U.S. forces near the Iranian and Syrian borders to reduce infiltration and, importantly, reduce Iranian influence on the Iraqi Government.”

And this:

“Significantly increase U.S. trainers and embeds, and transfer more U.S. equipment to Iraqi Security forces (ISF), to further accelerate their capabilities by refocusing the assignment of some significant portion of the U.S. troops currently in Iraq.”

Now I have no idea who leaked the Rumsfeld memo to the New York Times. But I hope whoever did left an extra copy on George Bush’s desk.

Math and mystery

You never give me your money
You only give me your funny paper
And in the middle of negotiation
You break down

I never give you my number
I only give you my situation
And in the middle of investigation
I break down
–Lennon & McCartney

“You Never Give Me Your Money.” The first song I learned to play competently on the piano, the intro part anyway. I still love those hypnotic chords, the A minor 7 dropping to the F major 7 – F6 combo before a temporary resolution with the skip-dancing G7 – C exchange. And McCartney’s vocal — forget the attribution, this is purely Paul – is simply killer; listen how he makes a sad song sound cool.

I figured out “You Never Give Me Your Money” by ear on a Baldwin upright in one of the practice rooms at Garden City High School, about 5 years after the release of “Abbey Road.” (For those too young or too old to fix that in time, it was about 1974.) Guitar was and is my main instrument; but in high school I started playing around with the keyboard, largely because of a man I considered one of the coolest cats on earth.

Dr. Diehl was my music theory teacher. He didn’t cut much of a figure, what with his short stature, horn-rimmed glasses and slicked-back thinning hair. He also had to be one of the last public school teachers to work regularly in a jacket and tie. Not exactly someone you’d think would inspire a classroom full of guys with shoulder-length hair, short attention spans and raging hormones for the gals in their peasant blouses and bell-bottomed jeans.

But inspire us he did. His unabashed musicality was downright contagious. Dr. Diehl helped us make sense of music, explaining the math and structure behind the sound; but what set him apart from other music teachers was that he did it in a way that preserved the mystery of the art form. Every day with Dr. Diehl was a lesson in, I can show you why a song or piece of classical music makes sense, but I can’t predict how you’ll respond to it. That you need to discover for yourself. Isn’t that amazing?

After 3 classes with Dr. Diehl you were bringing in your favorite records for him to play and explain and he would listen attentively, sometimes running over to the piano to repeat a phrase he’d just heard to illustrate a point in the day’s lesson. On performance days he was always fired up to hear what we’d be playing. I composed and performed my first piece of music for his class, a phrygian mode in E minor for guitar that I still play sometimes.

On the keyboard, I never came close to developing the chops of even a Nat King Cole wannabe. Sometimes I would, however — especially on days in the practice room when “You Never Give Me Your Money” rang out just the way I wanted it to — draw faces of the curious to the little window on the door to my teenaged bliss.

Isn’t that amazing?