There But for Fortune; I Sing for the Socialists!
What an inspiring summer hootenanny here at the Elbow Beach Hotel in Bermuda, this sunny and humid day of Friday, July 6. The early morning started off with a bang: after ordering espresso, cereal and o.j., I picked up The Royal Gazette from our Rose Cottage's mailbox and read a headline you'd never see in The New York Times. "Commission rapped for being too PC," leapt off the front page, and the article described a dispute between the Human Rights Commission, which insisted that in help-wanted ads the term "nanny" be changed to "child care-giver," and sensible opponents who believed this debasement of the English language was intolerable. Would that such courageous men and women prevail in certain regions of the United States.
William Cox, president of the Waterfront development in Hamilton, said: "I think it is a petty name change that proves nothing. I would have thought the HRC had more important things to worry about. It's ridiculous." Members of the HRC argued that the word "nanny" was too feminine and said that men would not apply for jobs labeled as such. A mother of two, who requested anonymity (fearing reprisals), countered: "A nanny is a profession and there are people that call themselves nannies all over the world. I have had male nannies apply to me for jobs. Being a nanny is a specific job and has very specific requirements."
Isn't the Second World rhapsodic? Time was in the U.S. that men didn't think twice about entering the medical profession as "nurses." God only knows what they're called in the present age; probably "hospital engineers" or some other equally vapid euphemism.
On Thursday, while Mrs. M read by the pool, I took the boys to Hamilton, a quick seven-minute cab ride from the hotel. We stopped in at Onion Jack's, a kitsch factory of souvenirs and ticky-tacky items that I collect for my office at home, a quirk that my orderly wife indulges, although not without the occasional hairy eyebrow. That meant piggy banks, key chains, ceramic picture frames, t-shirts, shot glasses, stripper lighters, postcards, superballs with enclosed waterbugs, magnets and foot-long pencils. A mammoth cruise ship had moored at the harbor on Front St., so we rubbed elbows-literally-with gaggles of Germans and Swedes in department stores and the one pharmacy that sold out-of-town newspapers, everything from the British tabs to the Boston Globe. I bought a copy of the Times but chucked it after reading the sports section. Everyone needs a vacation.
Right next to the Perot Post Office on Reid St., a Gen-X drunk staggered up to the three of us-MUGGER III was hamming it up on top of a garbage can for a photo op-and asked for money. As I pondered his slurred request, he upped the ante and said he needed four dollars for food: of the liquid sort, of course. So out of nowhere, I pulled out a $20 bill, and was ready to fork it over, when his buddy joined the shakedown and demanded the same. Can't figure it out, but I was in a jocular mood and told these luckless bums to split the dough, which they did, and then my kids and I watched as they trundled across the street to a liquor store specializing in Gosling's Rum. Nothing but the best from a damn smart-looking but sucker American.
After a lunch at Kentucky Fried Chicken-the only fast-food franchise allowed on the island-we spent 20 minutes at a toy store where, after Junior picked up a Banjo and Kazooie action figure and MUGGER III some four-year-old Power Ranger toys, we hit the goldmine. Cap guns. I've written previously how infuriating it is that in New York City you can't find this toy anywhere; again, political correctness gone amok.
So stupid. When I was a boy, I had a collection of the guns, most of them hand-me-downs from my brothers, and friends and I would dress in cowboy outfits, topped off with Davy Crockett coonskin caps, climb trees in the woods and tick off a dozen rolls of caps during the better part of an afternoon. (By the way, our get-togethers weren't called "play-dates," but rather "hacking around" or "hanging out.") Anyway, after we returned back to the cottage my sons went nuts with their new faux-weapons, and strictly obeyed the rules: no pointing the guns at anyone, no shooting indoors. In fact, Mrs. M, who was initially against the idea (after all, it's a guy thing), suddenly became Annie Oakley and made the amazing suggestion that we return to town the next day and stock up on ammo and a few more pistols, since the prohibition in NYC is so severe.
Surprisingly, there's no world-class hotel in Bermuda, but Elbow Beach suited our needs just fine, despite the food, typically crummy save for the local fish and chowder. (The one exception is the elegant Seahorse Grill, where one night we dined on wahoo, tuna, shark hash spring rolls, snapper, shrimp and chorizo wontons.) The boys frolicked in the pool most mornings-one day enticing me to the water for a mock Red Sox-Yanks game of catch-and on our first day there we met a charming family from Manhattan, whose kids attend school not far from Junior and MUGGER III's. Ironically, one of the boys was nicknamed "Kaz," a coincidence that left my oldest son in stitches, considering the hubbub we've had in New York Press' pages lately about the sullen cartoonist and his protege, the "Mr. Wiggles"-defamer Danny Hellman.
We spent the evening of Independence Day at my brother's summer house, and his two sons and ours played for hours: in the pool; chatting madly about video games and the CDs that cousin Quinn, who's 13, has with the cursed "parental advisory" label; making jokes about the big pot of beans at our burger & dog barbecue; and planning our outing to Yankee Stadium when they come to New York in August. From the deck of the house, we had a splendid view of a 15-minute fireworks display, which was even more exciting than all the frogs and lizards the cousins, Mrs. M and my brother hunted down under the bushes on the property. During that expedition, I stretched out on the grass for a catch-up with my sister-in-law Teresa, a lovely woman I've known for more than 30 years. We've had nothing but horse corn the past two years-lousy weather on Long Island, I'm guessing-but the cobs Teresa boiled up were sweet to the last kernel. Mrs. M, not a ravenous eater, polished off five ears, skipping the burgers entirely.
On the ride back to Elbow Beach, about 11 p.m., the din of singing frogs was delightful, reminding me of days long past in Huntington, where common crickets provided bucolic symphonies, but Junior wasn't impressed. He announced, sleepily: "To me, animal racket rates way below the sound of trucks and drunks outside my bedroom window in Tribeca."
The next morning, before claiming our chaise lounges at the pool, I took to the bully pulpit in the living room as Mrs. M sipped coffee and the boys poked at their cheese omelets. It was time for a little lesson about litigation. I explained the Microsoft case to the nippers and why it was a providential stroke of luck that Judge Thomas Penfield Jackson proved himself such a publicity-mad asshole that his ruling was largely reversed by the U.S. Court of Appeals. In the July 9 New Yorker Ken Auletta says Whoa, Nellie!, this controversial case isn't over by a long shot, but he's kidding himself. It's very unlikely the Bush administration will allow the breakup of Microsoft; the current administration's Justice Dept. will settle or drop the Clinton-inspired blast of retribution aimed at one of the prime economic contributors of the 90s.
Frankly, I don't give a damn about Gates and his Windows software-we're a Mac family-but the naked vengeance suffered by Gates was an American travesty, exactly the kind of Big Government interference that Clinton loved to sidetrack the nation with while he slithered out of self-inflicted political jams.
The boys wanted to know why frivolous lawsuits are anathema to any citizen who believes in U.S. democracy. I recounted the famous McDonald's case where that elderly witch-who would've made a fine partner for the Tin Can Lady on Al Gore's populist express last fall-sued the company because she was stupid enough to place a cup of hot coffee between her legs while in a car. When it spilled, and burned her legs, she sued. And won. I then told the story of a slacker employee at one of my newspapers who, after she was fired for poor performance, hired an ambulance-chaser "lawyer" and wrested several thousand dollars from my coffers. This was a miscarriage of justice that I settled out of court because I couldn't take the chance that a sympathetic jury might find her spurious claims of discrimination plausible, not to mention the risk of racking up enormous legal fees. Henry Fonda's courageous character in the classic film 12 Angry Men doesn't exist in modern America: the collection of citizens that holds enormous power in that jury box is as likely to stick it to Da Man as render a fair verdict.
Last Friday was a series of hits and misses. Junior had developed a cold and he didn't want to go swimming-which meant it wasn't a fake-job-so he and I spent time at the cottage while MUGGER III and Mrs. M played with friends at the pool, and then had lunch at the Pickled Onion in Hamilton. Elbow Beach is the most lushly landscaped resort we've visited: just a sampling of the flora includes hibiscus, frangipani, oleander, love lies bleeding, Norfolk Island pine trees, coconut palms, ice plants, narcissus, spiny sow thistles, jasmine and buttonwoods. And though it's not for everyone, the heat and extreme humidity were a tonic for my cold-blooded middle-aged body, as were the constant breezes and three-minute rain showers.
I was pleased that my eight-year-old skipped most of that day's Nickelodeon offerings in favor of lying in the hammock, reading a Harry Potter book, while I finished Meg Greenfield's Washington and, against my better judgment, read the David Brock excerpt of his upcoming book Blinded by the Right in the slim August Talk. Chris Caldwell, in last week's New York Press, wrote the definitive article on this twisted wreck, how he slimed a true gentleman, the American Spectator's Wladyslaw Pleszczynski, while trying (in vain, I suspect, except for willing dupes like Joe Conason) to win new friends among the liberal political intelligentsia. (An oxymoron, granted, but I'm in a charitable mood). Jane Mayer, who co-authored the Anita Hill-as-Joan-of-Arc book Strange Justice with Jill Abramson, has shown herself to be true scum with her light-on-facts smears against conservatives in The New Yorker, and it would be dandy if she and Brock double-dated at DC's Palm restaurant with refugees of the Clinton War Room.
Also in Talk this month is a campaign ad for Andrew Cuomo, who's attempting to retake New York's governorship for his family (not an ignoble goal on the face of it) and calling in his chits so he can steamroll over his Democrat opponent Carl McCall in the 2002 primary, then George Pataki in the general election. Writer Abigail Pogrebin, whose fawning portrait of the charisma-challenged Andrew is sheer celebrity-worship, has no business writing about politics. She takes at face value the comments from the former HUD official's friends, plays up the Kennedy connection (Cuomo is married to an RFK daughter, Kerry) and portrays father Mario as the brilliant Ancient Mariner, who modestly hopes his son doesn't make the same mistakes he did. I don't buy the elder Cuomo's humility for a minute, and the notion that Andrew is a messianic pol is just ludicrous: he's a marble-mouthed speaker, has a graveyard of patronage-related skeletons from his years in Bill Clinton's Washington and looks like a third-rate bouncer to boot.
By far the most intelligent quote in Pogrebin's exercise in public-relations spittle comes from the younger Christopher Cuomo, who told her: "I don't think you can do any better than 'Cuomo.' I just don't. I respect the Kennedys and I love Kerry, but he doesn't need it."
Unlike the trip down to Bermuda (our Continental jet departed just five minutes behind schedule), our return wasn't so smooth. We'd loaded up on more toy pistols and the pressing question was where to hide them to get them past U.S. Customs. My brother and Mrs. M insisted that the checked baggage was the place; stubborn as my New England-bred dad, I vetoed that plan, claiming that anyone in his right mind would see that the items were toys, and we'd breeze right through security and thus avoid a possible two-hour delay at Newark. Okay, so Father didn't know best. The kind Bermudan lady at immigration took one look at the guns, rolled her eyes, asked why we'd want them in the first place and then decided to help us out. She left her station, escorted Mrs. M back outside into the common area of the airport, found a box to enclose the offending items and sent them along with our other bags. Junior and MUGGER III were nervous wrecks for the 15 minutes their mom was out in their imaginary Wild West, praying that the contraband would slip on through.
Mrs. M returned, gave two thumbs up, demanded 1000 kisses from the boys for her heroic smuggling and we happily went upstairs to the lounge. A fellow named Robert Symons was playing steel pan tunes, and I bought one of his CDs, even though it'll probably collect dust in my office. There was one last gift shop before the gate, and although our carry-on bags were already stuffed, we waded into the thicket of tourists and filled our arms with newspapers, crossword puzzles, UK candy bars, miniature Bermuda flags and several bottles of local condiments.
The trouble started when my wife was jostled by another customer, and bammo! down to the floor crashed a jar of Bermuda barbecue sauce. She was mortified, of course, as anyone is at such an accident, and alerted one of the cashiers, who wasn't at all pleased. The woman scolded Mrs. M for her carelessness, repeated several times over that we'd have to pay for the broken goods-no kidding, madam-and then took about five minutes to get a dustpan and towel to clean up the mess. When my beet-faced bride went to a nearby women's room to wipe off the goo from her shirt, the employee followed her in to continue her admonishment. "Don't you know that stuff stains! What were you thinking, anyway!"
Well. That left us all a little cross as we boarded the plane, but once airborne, marveling at the deep-blue waters of the island, it was time to relax. At least for the rest of the family. The kids were engrossed in their Game Boy adventures, Mrs. M curled up with M.F.K. Fisher's The Art of Eating and I made the mistake of reading Saturday's New York Times. The first thing I noticed was a color photo of President Bush and his father in a golf cart, up in Kennebunkport for the holiday weekend, which included a fete for the current chief executive's 55th birthday. It was astonishing to see how rapidly GWB has aged in the past two years-and for once, I don't think the Times was purposely printing an unflattering photo of a man named Bush. His resemblance to the 41st president was far more striking than at last summer's GOP convention.
The story inside, by Frank Bruni, was typically condescending, furthering the gross caricature that President Bush works about an hour a day, making Ronald Reagan look like a Clinton workaholic aide in comparison. He wrote: "Eighteen holes of golf at a breakneck pace. A game of horseshoes on the lawn. A sunny spell of fishing. A 10-minute phone conversation with President Vladimir V. Putin of Russia. President Bush celebrated his 55th birthday here today with a combination of old habits and new obligations, mingling a heavy dose of sport and relaxation with just a little bit of work. Judging from his buoyant mood, he liked that mix rather well."
There's nothing to be done about such silly and partisan reporting-and it's preposterous that Bruni is considered a Bush shill by some of his sterner peers-but it does make you wonder. When JFK was sailing with his extended clan at Hyannis Port, or playing touch football for starry-eyed photographers, do you think he and Bobby were talking about just starlets and chowder?
Speaking of the Kennedys, a nutcase e-mailed me the following after Robert F. Kennedy Jr. was sentenced to 30 days in jail for his protest over the Vieques Navy bomb tests. It read: "You will never catch a cowardly Republican willing to go to jail for their courage in their conviction. Cowardly Republicans only go to jail for being crooks." This is so stupid it makes me ill. Did Kennedy serve any time in prison after he was nabbed for heroin possession many years ago? Of course not. And I won't even delve into the legal favoritism afforded Uncle Teddy for incidents that would land mere mortals behind bars. Spending time in the slammer for civil disobedience is a badge of honor, dodo; if RFK's namesake has any political aspirations, this stretch will gain votes, not lose them.
Obviously, while the journalists were off drinking at the local saloon, George W., George H.W. and Gov. Jeb Bush had plenty to discuss: missile defense, Putin, China, Dick Cheney, Macedonia, the Mideast, Terry McAuliffe's Democratic fundraising, the confusing economy and probably the media's excessive intrusion into the lives of their children. I just hope the former president, in his twilight years, wasn't too influential: too many days up in Maine, and all of a sudden we'll see a rollback on further necessary tax cuts, excessive accommodation for obstructionists like Tom Daschle (a la George Mitchell) and a softer stand toward China.
I do hope the President's parents weighed in on the necessity of stem-cell research: Bush must grant scientists the license to continue their exploration of this vital work. It has the promise of multiple medical breakthroughs, and, despite the rhetoric of some pro-lifers, will be an enormously popular political issue as well.
In Saturday's copy of the Times nothing was so repellent as Frank Rich's op-ed column, a stupid recitation of the left-wing's script about Bush's affluent background, as if the gaseous pundit, a theater critic for much of his career, has led a disadvantaged life. It would be forgettable but for his absurd slam at Dick Cheney's recent heart procedure.
Rich wrote: "It never occurred to Mr. Bush that 43 million Americans [not including the richie Rich, of course] have no health insurance to pay for a device with a price tag of $30,000 (exclusive of installation), or that most other Americans would have to battle their managed-care providers at length and perhaps fruitlessly to win approval for so costly a 'precautionary measure.' These Americans are not even on [Bush's] radar screen, which is why he made the blunder of threatening to veto any patients' bill of rights that vexes the H.M.O.'s, which are among his biggest campaign contributors."
I'll pass on Rich's omission of the fact that trial lawyers-a key part of the Democratic donor base-will benefit from any patients' bill of rights, not to mention that Bush's veto threat (if he carries it through) was an act of leadership. What's most striking, rather, is that with his contention that Bush cares only about the wealthy-I guess that's why poor and middle-income voters in the South voted for him; but those Americans aren't on Rich's radar screen-the elitist Times columnist ignores scientific advances. Obviously, he's for stem-cell research, since that's a charged issue that has its roots in abortion, but only a dolt would argue against the heart procedure Cheney underwent. Yes, it's expensive now, just as any groundbreaking technology is, but the prices will inevitably be vastly reduced. Thirty years ago, when my father died of a heart attack, bypass operations didn't even exist; today, his life would have been saved, as are those of millions of Americans, not just the ones who graduated from Ivy League colleges.
Oh, one more thought: Rich writes often about his own alma mater, and it's not Suffolk County Community College. Just an egalitarian school "outside of Boston."