The Bulls Die in Mexico: Trinkets & 10-Foot Waves
It was an odd St. Patrick's Day, and not just because the MUGGER family was vacationing in Puerto Vallarta, lodged in an enormous duplex suite at the luxurious Camino Real, just 15 minutes south of the coastal city. There was just one of the typical hotel screwups: upon our arrival on March 16 the bellhop gave us keys to the wrong set of rooms. We entered, a tv and CD system were blaring simultaneously, and then two figures appeared, naked, and I had to negotiate the goof with the tubby hombre while his bimbo hastily searched for a bathrobe. It didn't help that the boys were giggling?and who wouldn't, at their ages, witnessing a real live porn set, even if it was Larry Flynt-caliber.
I think it's a tradition that's gone the way of Washington's Birthday, attorneys who care more about the law than obscene settlement fees, regional beer factories and the fortunes of Gov. Gray Davis and England's Tony Blair. My boys' Irish heritage is beside the point. Even though my maternal grandparents were born in Dublin, and Mrs. M's great-grandparents in County Clare, Junior and MUGGER III think of themselves as strictly American. It wasn't always that way. I remember Mom telling my brothers and me?once a year?about the prankster at her Met Life office in Manhattan back in 1938, when the steno poll was 90 percent Irish. Seems this gal thought it would be a hoot if she wore Northern Ireland's orange on March 17 of that year. The joke was on her: no one spoke to her, and the woman quit two weeks later, thoroughly ostracized.
St. Patrick's Day in the United States today is largely an opportunity for a sanctioned bender, enormous restaurant and bar sales and, lately, political squabbles that have nothing to do with Ireland. That Hillary Clinton even had to worry about which parade to grace?Syracuse's or Manhattan's?is the far side of crazy. Here's a woman who symbolizes everything that's wrong with American politics, a cipher who was strangely embraced by a blind New York electorate, and partisans of varying interests squawked about her calculated choice to march upstate. It was a mere yellow jacket sting for the junior Senator's trifle, compared to the black-and-blue welts with which she's covered from answering for her sleaziness, greed, hypocrisy and crimes against what was once called in civics class "good government."
Unlike the Caribbean resorts we often frequent, I didn't spot a single European at the Camino Real?the distance was obviously a factor?but who's complaining? We met people at the lobby pool?while watching the kids snorkel and play volleyball in the water?from Idaho, Chicago, Kansas, Denver, Nebraska, Wyoming and New Mexico, an entirely different clientele from, say, the one at the Four Seasons in Nevis. The peso goes a long way, having slipped in value even from where it was during our stay in Cancun last Thanksgiving, but the hotel managers I spoke with are all exhilarated about President Bush's election. His Texas background, relationship with Vicente Fox and down-to-earth persona give them hope that this administration won't be so Eurocentric. That's a correct perception, I believe, and it's about time. Central and South America have a strategic importance to the U.S. that hasn't recently been given a high priority.
Mind you, I had no idea this encounter occurred until the school year was over.
My sons also made friends with a precocious fourth-grader from Kansas City, a heartland kid who attends Prairie Elementary School and has manners that I wish all of America's youth would emulate. The three of them were rafting in the pool when the boy came up to me, stuck out his hand, and said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Smith. I'm David Smart." David came up to our suite one morning and participated in Junior's mock-Hardball home movie. He spoke about life in Kansas?he lives on the border of Missouri?his love of the Royals and Chiefs and why, if he'd been old enough, he'd have voted for Al Gore last fall.
It was a fascinating dialogue, as David contended that even though Bill Clinton was a "bad man," he was afraid Bush would tamper with abortion rights! Jeez, a Patricia Ireland disciple in our living quarters. Well, not exactly, since he was in favor of tax cuts "so that the Dow Jones and Nasdaq could recover, and so we'd all be able to afford a fancy hotel and vacation like this next year." David and his family departed a few days before us, but he e-mailed when he got back home, saying he might be in New York soon?he's never been to the city?and would like to get together with Junior and MUGGER III. That'll be an eye-opener to this eventual successor to Sen. Sam Brownback.
There was a fiesta on the beach that night, with a fat suckling pig roasting for hours before dinner, and the boys couldn't take their eyes off the spit, even though they were painting Mexican pottery at the time. Don't know if the porker had a touch of foot-and-mouth, but it was damn tasty, especially doused with a fresh, pepper-laden salsa. At sundown, the boys just played with their meat, ate some grapes and rolls to earn dessert privileges and then roasted marshmallows over the fire. MUGGER III, after I showed him the technique I learned on camping trips with Mr. Mott and Troop 12, suddenly decided he wanted to join the Boy Scouts several years from now.
Suits me fine, as long as the organization hasn't pulled a Jane Fonda and included needlepoint and breakdancing in its merit badge roster. As I've written previously, the entire controversy about gays in the Scouts doesn't really engage me. I don't think it was the smartest move for gay activists to politicize the matter, but ultimately it's a nonissue. Yes, there are adult gay Scout leaders, just as there are adult gay leaders in churches and schools, on Little League teams and in chess clubs. The same rules should apply: If an adult takes advantage of a child, he or she should be prosecuted. Otherwise, skip the morality lesson and celebrate the positive aspects of all these organizations.
As it turned out, that pig played tricks on my digestive system during the night, precipitating weird dreams about Newt Gingrich coming back to power. Could've been the excellent biography of Tip O'Neill by John Aloysius Farrell I was reading, detailing the former House Speaker's maneuvers to oust Richard Nixon from office in '74, but I'm betting on those fatty morsels of meat. Actually, Gingrich's return to DC, after a few more years of Nixon-like penance, is not unlikely: the GOP ought not to waste a brilliant tactician like the personally reckless Georgian. Unless there's a Democratic landslide in the midterm elections of 2002, watch Gingrich, who's already writing daily newspaper op-eds and appearing frequently on tv, return to the national scene inch by inch, although not in an elective post.
I suspect Farrell's book will be the definitive take on the parochial Boston pol for at least the next 20 years. Although there's a slight liberal tint?after all, the author works for the Boston Globe?Farrell is no suck-up to the Massachusetts Democratic machine. I wonder what all the dopes who're complaining about an independent group's use of JFK's voice in a pro-Bush tax cut ad will make of the numerous Kennedy anecdotes. For example, I had no idea that O'Neill was constantly feuding with the wealthy clan, or that like many other up-from-the-streets politicians he particularly despised Bobby Kennedy.
Here's a choice passage, describing the aftermath of a shakedown O'Neill grudgingly participated in for JFK in 1960: "O'Neill also helped brewer August Busch stage a fund-raising breakfast at the Park Plaza Hotel. Afterward, he huddled with Kennedy and [Bob] O'Hayre in a men's room. 'How did we do?' asked Kennedy. 'I got $29,000: twelve in cash and seventeen in checks,' said O'Hayre. 'What will I do with it?'
"'Give me the cash,' said Kennedy. 'And give Kenny O'Donnell the checks.' 'Jeez,' O'Neill told him. 'This business is the same whether you're running for ward alderman, or whether you're running for President of the United States.'"
Does that ring a bell, Mr.-Campaign-Finance-Reform Advocate Teddy Kennedy?
TThe boys and I, after a morning dodging waves at the beach, took a short cab ride to the center of Puerto Vallarta, a cluster of small shops selling locally manufactured trinkets and religious artifacts that can keep me occupied for hours. First, however, I had to buy off Junior and MUGGER III with lunch at the local Burger King. This town has a dichotomy that's not uncommon to second-world countries: There are American chains lining the streets?Hooters, Pizza Hut, Domino's, McDonald's, etc.?but they're surrounded by tiny storefronts where English isn't spoken and credit cards aren't accepted. The streets are still bumpy with cobblestone, and if you walk off the main drag, there are 19th-century churches and decrepit mansions to explore. Not surprisingly, touts are on every corner, trying to entice tourists on boating trips to see dolphins for exorbitant prices (even in peso-friendly Mexico). But unlike the Mideast, say, they take a firm "no" with a smile.
The four of us did have a laugh-a-minute jaunt into town on March 20, however, and my wife was a good enough sport to let MUGGER III mull over, and mull over four more times, the choice between a blue or green Mexican Power Ranger action figure. We stopped for lunch at a dark restaurant called Meson de Calderon, decorated with drawings of Warner Bros. icons like Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and Elmer Fudd, as well as pictures of celebrities who'd frequented the establishment in the past. Junior looked at a photo of Leonardo DiCaprio near our table, and said, "Hey, Dad, that guy looks just like you!" I suggested it was time he became a full-fledged Smith and started wearing glasses.
We ordered enough grub for eight: chorizo with drippy cheese, clam burritos, roast pork, stuffed peppers, refried beans, several bowls of pickled jalapenos, soft tacos with chicken and beef, mushroom enchiladas, skewered octopus, garlic shrimp and mountains of tortillas. It was all delicious, but at one point during the meal I said to Mrs. M, "I think I've crossed the Rubicon, Puerto Vallarta's Revenge-wise." It might've been the trip I made to the john, where I saw water bugs the size of rats roaming around in the pee trough, but anyway you cut it, the toilet seemed to be just one step lower than the kitchen in the spic & span department.
But no matter. On the cab ride back to the hotel, Junior horrified his mother by talking about a tv show he'd seen, in Spanish, where a teenage couple "was about to have sex." At the same time, MUGGER III was in boxing mode?he's got a wicked right-hand jab?and was recreating the first Clay-Liston fight in the crowded backseat. Mrs. M sighed, recalling vacations of just two years ago when, without protest, she could buy cutesy duds for the boys at Harrods in London. Now we're living scenes from Malcolm in the Middle.
On the other hand, Junior reads every night before bed, and has drawn more than 50 sketches for a comic strip called "Idiot Man" that he's hoping will appear one day, right next to Mr. Wiggles, in New York Press. It's all pretty normal to me?although the filth quotient has increased since my childhood?but then, I grew up with four brothers.
There's no question that the highlight of our Mexican getaway was the March 21 bullfight several miles outside Puerto Vallarta. Mrs. M begged off?the thought of blood and guts repelled her?but the boys and I had a blast. The actual bullring was on the rinky-dink side (seating only about 1000) compared to ones I've seen in Madrid and Mexico City, and I was a little nervous that our close proximity to the action might be too bloody for my sons, but they were fearless. At one point, MUGGER III was yelling, "Stab that bull!" so loudly that I had to hush him up. In fact, the skinhead terrorist in front of us turned around and said, "Hey man, I want to see the dude get killed by the bull!" I guess he couldn't pronounce matador.
My friends at PETA would be thrilled at the alleged barbarism of the festivities, but it's a national sport, and the ambience is a cross between a baseball game at Yankee Stadium and an OTB outlet. Which meant there was a slew of vendors hawking souvenirs, posters, Cokes and cotton candy. But mostly it was the Coronas that sold, at a rapid clip. The workers roamed the arena, and I felt bad for the guys at the bottom of the pecking order, who had little luck unloading their bags of pistachios. Junior and MUGGER III were riveted by the preparation for the star matadors?on this day, "Miguelete," Israel Tellez, Ernesto Castellon and Juan Andres had top billing?as the toreadors knifed the bulls with colored bayonets a few times to slow them down.
The first victim was a sturdy brute, "the Ty Cobb of bulls," as Junior put it, and wasn't deterred by even a dozen slashes to his body. When the matador finally came out to preen before the crowd and wave his red cape, his prey was still kicking even as blood was pouring onto the sand. In fact, "Miguelete" must've been a minor leaguer, since he was upended twice, once landing right on his butt, hat?montera?flying, and requiring the help of three toreadors. Finally, after he stuck the bull with a stiletto, the match was over. A grunt put the animal out of his misery with two stabs to the temple, and then it was dragged across the ring?after his ear was cut off for a favored guest?and out of view. Whether the meat of his body was then sold to an area restaurant I have no idea.
The Pacific's surf was too rough to swim in, and the boys left me a nervous wreck as they waited for the "big wave," holding hands as it approached. Mrs. M, a native Californian who swims like a mermaid, was more relaxed, giving the kids a longer leash than I. And, in fact, they're both pretty good in the water, as a result of swimming lessons back home and repeated pool play at the various resorts we travel to. I still get a little spooked by the undertow, remembering a summer day about 38 years ago at Jones Beach when I ventured out too far, wiped out and was scared silly as my father quickly rescued my sorry ass. I was more careful after that experience, although our two annual visits to Jones Beach were almost as exciting as a day at Coney Island or Yankee Stadium.
No one in my family was much for the sun, so we'd have to bundle up while relaxing on the beach?my dad in long-sleeve shirts?and the one thing I remember most from those excursions, aside from my underwater mishap, was a group of middle-aged men, in lace-up shoes, walking back and forth amidst the enormous crowds. They weren't exactly hobos, but that was the 1963 aura. I was mesmerized by these guys, who'd comb the sand with rickety sweepers, stopping every minute or so when they'd find a quarter or dime. I suppose this was a precursor to people collecting soda and beer cans from garbage baskets in the city, but like everything back then?and this is the gloss of childhood nostalgia?it didn't seem like such a desperate "occupation." Could be that they were homeless or broke, but I don't think so. Maybe it was a hobby, like playing the lottery, and they were hoping that their sand-sweepers would come up with a diamond ring or gold bracelet. Seemed like a great way to make some money, I thought, but I never got around to joining the crew myself.
The Sunday before we returned to arctic New York City, I had a fascinating conversation with a fellow from Albuquerque whose son was playing a shoot-'em-up James Bond spy game with my kids. He owns an herbal medicine business, employing 30 people, and when he noticed my raised eyebrow, the fellow quickly said, "Yeah, I know, you're thinking I'm some kind of Berkeley kook. But people from the East Coast just can't separate the holistic fruitcakes from people like me who are practicing legitimate and extremely important research." I heard him out: sounded pretty legit to me. Even though a Gore supporter, he was entirely reasonable when discussing last year's Florida debacle. "Look," he said, echoing my own opinion, "that state got a bad rap. New Mexico was a nightmare on Election Day and should've had a recount. From what I've heard, and seeing the conduct at polling spots, I think Bush really won the state. And let's not forget St. Louis."
A liberal entrepreneur who actually thinks straight. No wonder New Yorkers (and Beltway lifers) are viewed with such contempt by the rest of the country.
Bush Transcends the Beltway Booboisie
It was a quiet Saturday night, last weekend, with the boys and Mrs. M tuckered out from another gloomy global warming day, and already asleep. We'd been to the kickoff Downtown Little League parade in the morning, freezing for an hour in City Hall's park, waiting for the arrival of the cops and their horses to clear the streets for the march to Battery Park City. Frostbite on March 31? Believe it, Kyoto and all you Mad Cow European leaders who're giving President Bush the finger for explaining, in a terse sentence or two, that the U.S. isn't accepting a reduction of carbon dioxide emissions while jobs are at stake in our own country.
I'd settled in front of the tube, takeout pie from Il Mattone in hand (A plug for an advertiser! Call Miss Cynthia Cotts, the Village Voice's 24-hour-on-call ethics womyn!), the bulldog edition of Sunday's Times on the floor, and tuned in to CNN's Take 5 for the first time. The crispy pizza was delicious, especially after 10 days of refried beans, guacamole and suckling pig in Mexico, but the entertainment was predictably abysmal.
CNN's in a freefall that makes Amazon.com look like a blue-chip investment. First, its management turns the accomplished journalist Tucker Carlson into a tv eunuch by pairing him with lifetime loser Bill Press on the silly Spin Room. Then, in a ham-handed youth appeal, as if that demographic would be watching political chitchat on a Saturday night anyway, the tone-deaf CNN wizards cooked up a vehicle for Salon's Jake Tapper and The New Republic's Michelle Cottle?they host a half hour, with three rotating colleagues each week, which makes MTV's The Real World look contemporary by comparison.
The Wall Street Journal's John Fund, in a poignant March 26 eulogy for Rowland Evans on the paper's website, was far too gentlemanly when briefly discussing Take 5. Fund distinguished between old-fashioned reporters and the Gen-X (and boomer) pundits today who think they're rock stars. I'd assign the blame for the latter to George Stephanopoulos, at least partially, but that's just one man's opinion. Fund wrote: "'Take 5' is a sassy and smart show, but so far it primarily conveys attitude rather than information. Instead of McLaughlin-style 'predictions,' the show asks each panelist a California question: 'What did you care about last week?'"
Time's excellent John Dickerson, a guest last Saturday night, appeared uncomfortable on the set; the New York Post's Robert George must have the disposition of Ronald Reagan, since he seemed to roll with the show's inanity. Tapper, ebullient over his mentor John McCain's campaign finance reform triumph in the Senate, proved as obnoxious on the air as in print. Kind of like Jerry Lewis' "Noisy Eater" from decades ago. Cottle, conversely, has a stunning on-air presence (which is fortunate, since her TNR articles are usually fairly dumb, most recently a parochial April 2 essay on Texans in DC), and when Take 5 is canceled I bet she winds up with a more dignified tv perch.
After turning to the Times' Sunday editorial page, I became so disgusted by its rancid content that my plan to write a piece for this column about Bush and the media was scuttled. Instead, please go to nypress.com's "Billboard" for April 2 to read my comments about the paper's Bolshevik editorial and Maureen Dowd's most I'm-a-fruitcake-how-about-you? column in memory.
That said, let's talk baseball.
Last week wasn't George Bush's best: McCain (propped up by his disgraceful media droolers) preened in the spotlight with his scandalous and unconstitutional "reform" bill. (I won't dwell on McCain here: look for an online "Billboard" update on campaign finance reform on April 5 at nypress.com.) Liberals were frothing over the administration's rollback of Bill Clinton's last-minute arsenic-in-the-water executive order, one more land mine the former president left his successor. If Clinton was so concerned about tap water (and ergonomics, for that matter), why didn't he and Enviro Al Gore insist Congress pass such a bill several years ago? Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neill, Bush's Cabinet lemon, doddered along, keeping his own eccentric pace, contributing zilch to his boss' tax-cut sell. Joe Lieberman and his Democratic cohorts somewhat successfully diverted attention from Bush's comprehensive tax overhaul with an absurd $300 rebate scheme.
Sen. Hillary Clinton, of all people, continued to lambaste the President with scripted rhetoric. On March 24, in Corning, NY, the novice legislator told a friendly crowd: "[Bush] is not just trying to turn back the clock on the Clinton administration; they want to turn the clock back on the Roosevelt administration." A few days later, in Washington, Clinton ranted on: "More people voted for [Al Gore's] agenda than the other agenda. I still kind of wonder what year we're living in, what decade we're living in, what century we're living in." Judging by the nonchalant greed Mrs. Clinton has brazenly demonstrated since becoming a public figure, I'd say she's emblematic of the darker side of the 1980s, a notch above Ivan Boesky. Please pardon my theft of Harold Ickes' vocabulary, but the woman is one evil cunt.
Finally, with the detention (at press time) of 24 American Navy crew members in China, Bush will be forced, sooner than he'd expected, to issue a resolute rebuke to Beijing, and possibly speed the sale of arms to Taiwan. Which is the smart move anyway.
But on Friday afternoon, at a lunch with dozens of Major League Baseball legends, Bush simultaneously exhibited his political cunning and genuine humility. Surrounded by some 40 Hall of Famers, including Sandy Koufax, Yogi Berra, Johnny Bench, Whitey Ford, Hank Aaron, Bob Feller, Nolan Ryan, Bob Gibson and Sparky Anderson, Bush announced that a portion of the south White House lawn would be devoted to T-ball games for area boys and girls. All presidents alter the White House grounds to accommodate their interests?Bush's father had a horseshoe pit; Clinton a jogging track; JFK a swimming/tryst pool; and Eisenhower a putting green?but this president is the first to make at least a symbolic gesture to the local community. He explained: "In a small way, maybe we can help to preserve the best of baseball right here in the house that Washington built."
Bush, speaking on a subject that's close to his heart, was eloquent that afternoon, just two days before the 2001 Major League season opened in Puerto Rico with a win by the Toronto Blue Jays. He said: "Everyone who loves baseball can remember the first time he saw the inside of a real major league park, with real big-league players. It stays with you forever?the greenness of the grass, the sight of major leaguers in uniform, the sound of a big-league swing meeting a big-league pitch."
Expressing the sentiments of millions of citizens, he continued by saying that baseball isn't just about money, statistics and the owner-player squabbles that dominate the sports page headlines. Cynical reporters are speculating that the National Pastime will die if, at the end of this season, there's another strike. It'll anger fans, including me?after the '94 season was aborted, I gave up my Sunday season-ticket plan at Yankee Stadium, an impulsive act I've regretted ever since?but when the furor dies down, the game's splendor will remain. This peculiarly American tradition, the opportunity to lose yourself for a couple of hours at the ballpark, trumps one more set of "labor" negotiations.
Bill Clinton faked his rock 'n' roll credentials, with all that Fleetwood Mac and Judy Collins baloney, and with his alleged familiarity with Bob Dylan's lyrics, but you knew it was a boomer scam. Clinton was about as interested in rock 'n' roll as my parents. It was all political.
George Bush won't even attempt that Summer of Love gambit?the atrocious Oak Ridge Boys are more his style?but his love for baseball is sincere. He continued last Friday: "As much as anything else, baseball is the style of a Willie Mays, or the determination of a Hank Aaron, or the endurance of a Mickey Mantle, the discipline of Carl Yastrzemski, the drive of Eddie Mathews, the reliability of a Kaline or a Morgan, the grace of a DiMaggio, the kindness of a Harmon Killibrew, and class of Stan Musial, the courage of a Jackie Robinson, or the heroism of Lou Gehrig."
A California buddy of mine, pinko through and through, e-mailed last Saturday: "Regular t-ball games on the White House lawn. Finally a Bush initiative I can get behind."
Bush is in for a rough six months. With his tax-cut proposal at the mercy of slow learners like Rhode Island's Lincoln Chafee (a Republican) and with the typical blarney coming from opponents like millionaires John Kerry, John Edwards and Teddy Kennedy; an energy crisis that worsens by the week; a yo-yo ball of confusion on Wall Street; and the loud self-righteousness of environmental activists, his approval ratings will inevitably decline. Throw in three more international incidents, maybe some hoof-and-mouth hysteria or Strom Thurmond knocking off, and Bush'll have to be on his toes to prevent a premature meltdown of his administration.
I'm convinced he'll ride it out. With his T-ball shindig on Friday, Bush showed once again?despite the sniping from a snooty media?that, unlike Clinton, he's not a devious man, juggling five different strategies and poll results in his head when he makes a public speech. That's one of the qualities that got him to the White House, despite overwhelming odds. It's a quality that most Americans will come to admire.
Almost forgot: It's time for my annual prediction that the Red Sox will finally win the World Series. Everyone's counting them out, with Nomar Garciaparra injured, a shaky pitching staff and the unreasonable concern about Carl Everett's temper (a dysfunctional clubhouse didn't seem to hurt the Yanks in the late 70s; just ask Reggie Jackson). So, although I'm limiting my wagers this year to just one with Lisa Kearns, I'm up for a Sox-Mets Series in October, with the Bosox winning in six games.
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