America's Political Super Bowl

With the Wall Street bailout debacle going on, I feel like a failed lemming who doesn’t know which cliff to jump off. I have no idea who to believe: the group that is predicting that we will all lose our jobs through lack of available credit, or the one that says this is just another rip off. I’m not invested in the stock market precisely because I don’t pretend to understand it. All I know is that someone—make that a whole lot of someones—failed in their jobs.

The Washington Post says that a major part of the problem was not the usual culprits we’re hearing about but instead was the Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac who decided their role was profit and they used their money—our money—to hire lobbyists to tear down any regulation imposing controls on them. I suppose grab and run sums up corporate philosophies these days. I sure hate to see them rewarded by further mortgaging our children.

This whole affair, coming as it does with that period of insanity known as the election, provides a double whammy, meaning that there’s no one left to trust. Everyone’s become corrupt and a special interest—even organized religion. I am left to wonder what it is that I am watching.

The closest I can come to describing the spectacle is to call it the American Political Super Bowl. This seems appropriate because people are not choosing candidates—they are choosing sides, and they are prepared to defend their team with flag waving and loud shouting that says absolutely nothing except “Go Team.”

On the one side, we have Team America. They are known for loud foot stomping while chanting USA, USA. They wear American flag pins. They want things to remain as they were: comfortable and predictable and flattering to their vanity. They do a lot of talking about values (their own), standing on their own two feet and not taking hand-outs, and building fences to keep out illegal immigrants. They still want to dominate the world through military force (“Americans love a war,” said General Patton, the team owner of Team America), and they love to kick butt. Corporations love them because Team America believes in the almighty (although now devaluing dollar) and tries to remove all restraints on raising that buck. They tend to look on minorities as mostly illegals, encroaching on the American dream, and better off out of the country if they aren’t willing to work for less than minimum wage. Their hero is Ronald Reagan, the head coach and author of trickle down economics.

On the other side, we have Team Future. These are people who are chanting “Cut us in. Cut us in.” They distrust corporations because they are making money and not offering benefits. They like to picket Wal Mart because they think it doesn’t pay its workers enough. They may be part of America’s growing minority future and have an attitude problem toward Whitey or the Man or Gringos, or whatever they call the shrinking Caucasian population. They are likely to favor Affirmative Action programs but get resentful if someone suggests that they or anyone else might not have succeeded without them. They like to blame lack of opportunity for their lack of progress and talk a lot about raising the minimum wage. Many of their parents look back with nostalgia to the days when unions meant something. They like social programs and are more likely to favor choice when it comes to what they call reproductive rights. John Kennedy is the owner of this team and its coach is Ted Kennedy.

Trying to referee, somewhere in the middle of the field, is a bunch of Independents who are endlessly courted by either team and who stand, like me, dazed in the glare of the headlights of the two on-rushing groups. These Independents are something of a mystery to the two teams who either feel that if they aren’t part of the solution they’re part of the problem, or that they should either love America or leave it. While the teams line up along the sidelines and the cheerleaders kick up their thighs to loud cheers, the Indies are likely to be in the end zones and wondering what the hell is going on.

What IS going on? In the end it is only a game, after all. Presidents can’t do that much without majorities in Congress. Bush’s trouble was that he had a Congress in which his party had the majority in both houses. He might have been a more successful president if he had encountered opposition and been forced to defend his policies. I see him now as a tragic figure as Aristotle described that figure in The Poetics: a man who does what he believes is best and is destroyed by it, destroying others around him in the process.

Personally, I would like to see both teams cool it a bit. All the cheerleading, the name-calling, the posturing, and the ticket selling is turning me off—and I’m one of the people in the middle so supposedly I’m desirable. I want both sides to quit telling me they are absolutely right. I want them to talk about issues rather than spin me slogans. And I PARTICULARLY want them to stop sending me passionate e-mails that are false, misleading, and full of crap. Do they think because I’m independent I am also stupid?

I nominated myself for Vice President because I was tired of this nonsense. I want someone to come forward who is not an ideologue, not zealous, and not a messiah.

I want someone to acknowledge the fact that dealing with Middle East has no easy answers because there are thirty-five hundred years of history that most Americans don’t bother to learn before they rush in with fix-its such as democracy. These are people who live two thousand years ago as if it is yesterday. Now we are part of what they will remember in another 2,000 years.

I want someone who will understand that governments balance and protect for the sake of fairness and the national interest; they do not promote one group over another except in exceptional cases such as ensuring fairness and civil rights, which are part of what this country prides itself for.

I want someone who will understand that the rule of law is not something to be manipulated to someone’s pet point of view. Either we have a nation of laws or we have a nation of constitutional amendments that serve special interests.

My God—what I really want in a president is intelligence, objectivity, judgement, education, and compassion. Does such an animal exist? I hope that America is the winner when the referee calls, “Play Ball.”

Writing to be Read

Hello to my loyal readers: all dozen of you! If you are enjoying this blog, how about forwarding it to your friends? I'm human and just as egoncentric as everyone else. I'd love to be read. You can reach me at dianamdeluca@aol.com if you want to comment or argue. But there is also a place at the end of each entry for you to comment more publicly. Thanks for reading this! Diana

Me for Vice President

The wisest political commentary I’ve received lately comes from my hair stylist. She’s a single woman, earning her living the hard way, paying her taxes and not seeing that she’s getting much in return. “Calm down,” she told me as she cut my hair. “Now that the Wall Street thing has happened, people are reminded of what’s important. They’ll see through the cute stuff with Palin. We’re smarter than they think.”

Her calm confidence made me wonder why I am so personally offended by the selection of John McCain’s Mini-Me, the trophy Vice President, Sarah Palin. I think part of it may be because many other women—including me—appear better qualified to be a heartbeat away other than just being women, handy, and agreeing with John McCain.

Wow--you may be thinking. She thinks she's qualified to run for such high office? Well--if Ms. Palin is the yardstick, I think I am. And why not? I've been in public life for a lot longer than she has and I'll stack my university experience against her state experience. The budget and infrastructure of most big public universities are larger than Alaska's and I'm willing to bet that our students and faculty are just as independent and unruly as her citizens. So please bear with me and allow me to provide you with the following checklist of our qualifcations.

People Skills: In my younger days, I went out on the picket line for women’s issues. We didn’t get it all (the Equal Rights Amendment) and women still earn less than men but we got some of it. In fact, it was quite exciting to think that the FBI might have files on us all—alas, when I applied to see my file, the FBI claimed not have one. I bet Ms. Palin doesn’t even think about what we went through to make sure she could have a career. Score: one point for me for social activism.

Overcoming Adversity: My doctorate got earned the hard way—even though I was a good student the scholarships went to the men (they had families to support, don’t you know?) so the burden of graduate school fell on me and my family. Score: one point for me for proven determination.

Administrative Experience: My most salient experience, of course, is that I have been a cabinet member on the staff of the president of the University of Hawaii. I was, in fact, listed as one of three most powerfully placed women on the president’s staff. We worked with a budget about $1 billion (fifteen years ago), so it probably compares well with Alaska’s state budget today which is around $8 billion. Administering a university system has to be equivalent of being the mayor of a small town. Score: Let’s be generous: one point for each of us.

Dealing with Difficult People: The president sent me out as a trouble shooter to wherever trouble appeared. This included dealing with fraternities (who liked to send their pledges on a nude run round the campus after dark--the Honolulu Police Department loved that), the Athletics Department and the NCAA, which I am sure Ms. Palin has never been faced with. Score: One point for me although anyone who has dealt the NCAA might say this was worth two.

Federal Policy: Then there were the legal problems. I worked with the state attorney general to manage the university’s unending law suits (usually with the university as a defendant)—everything from people cutting their feet on sprinklers to equal opportunity and sexual harassment complaints. Ms. Palin probably knows about the employment policies given the brouhaha with her ex-brother-in-law, but I doubt she has dealt with a student complaining about being stalked by a professor. Score: One point for me.

State Legislature: When I left the university, I had two commendations from the State of Hawaii Legislature and a personal commendation from the governor. Now, I admit that I did not run for office but my office supervised the university’s lobbyists and I was named by the governor to commissions and task forces. I was part of the hands-on, direct process for establishing international agreements with Viet Nam (prior to normalization of relations), Russia, and Thailand. I figure my international experience (got her there) makes up for at least some of her public experience. Score: I’ll give myself a point here, but I’ll concede her three points.

The grand total then is six points for me and four for Ms. Palin. The only real advantage I see that she has over me (besides getting herself elected) is her hobby of shooting wolves from aircraft. But since I feel that even a wolf deserves a fair chance, I will concede that one to her. Forgive me if I don’t award any points.

Wal-Mart Mom: I’ve been told that Palin’s strength is with Wal-Mart Moms—apparently these are votes that McCain can’t get by himself. Now, I don’t know who they mean by Wal-Mart Moms— Cindy McCain may not shop at Wal-Mart, but I do. My step-granddaughter works there and if the economy keeps sliding, I might be glad of a job there myself. I therefore believe I can counter Ms. Palin’s advantage by arguing that I too am a mother and that I do indeed shop at Wal-Mart.

Therefore, given my obvious advantage, may I ask for your support of my nomination for Vice President of the United States? As I hope I have demonstrated, I have the requisite experience and will stand by my pledges to you (as long as they are useful). But I do make one promise that I intend to keep. I promise faithfully that I will not go out and buy new eyeglasses no matter how cute they look on my opponent.

Los Alamos Mon Amour

When I was an undergrad at the University of Hawaii’s Manoa campus back in the early sixties, there was a tavern called The Blue Goose in Mo’ili’ili, the small town below the campus. I had a husband and child at home so I didn’t get to spend much time there, but I did have lunch now and then. I remember it mostly as dark and somewhat noisy, but one thing remains vivid. On one wall, there was a large poster about what to do in the event of a nuclear attack on the Hawaiian Islands. There was a list of what sounded like fairly prudent precautions (stay away from windows, don’t look at the blast etc.) but it ended with the advice to get under a table, put your head between your legs, and kiss your ass goodbye.

The question of surviving a nuclear attack was intensely interesting to us in Hawaii because of the many military targets in the chain. We knew that if the main island of Oahu came under attack, very few would be left to kiss anything goodbye. This realization was underlined by the fact that Hiroshima and Nagasaki had happened less that twenty years before, there was a mad scramble among nations to amass as many weapons as possible, and even our own government was occupied blowing up empty land somewhere in the deserts of Nevada and New Mexico. I know every generation loses its innocence at some point, but I also have to believe the new power to blow up the world made our angst uniquely poignant.

All during the time I was in college, we lived under threat. It was the 1960s version of today’s terrorism and just as real. We watched the Cuban Missile Crisis unfold and held our breaths. Even when that passed, the threat didn’t. With time, we developed a cynical ability to laugh at what we feared—a point of view brilliantly reflected in the movie “Dr. Strangelove” in 1964. Some of us became activists against all wars, others tried not to think too much about it, yet others—like me—became morbidly curious. I found myself wondering why this monster had been developed, how it came about, and where it had all happened. This is what took me recently to Los Alamos—a city on a plateau high above Santa Fe, the site of the Manhattan Project that developed the bomb and still home to the Los Alamos National Lab.

I think I went to Los Alamos looking for a piece of the youthful joy that we of my generation lost. But as Sid and I drove down the main street of modern research facilities—still secure but not surrounded as they once were by barbed wire designed to both enclose and exclude—I realized I was seeking the wrong thing. All of a sudden it was 1942. The war could still be lost. The Axis allies were said to be working on a new weapon of catastrophic power and if this nation were to survive, the Axis had to be beaten to it. The most brilliant scientific brains were gathered on this muddy mesa with no less a mission than to develop a weapon that would end the war. Among those who literally “disappeared” from civilian life, there was a real sense of mission and excitement. The Los Alamos historical museum housed in one of the few surviving buildings used by the original project shows just how uncomfortable the setting was and what little reward there was except for contributing to the national effort. And yet that was enough. The scientists and the graduate students stayed and did the job.

I am quite sure the scientists didn’t think at first about the consequences of what they were achieving. Their focus was on solving the various technical issues associated with fission and implosion—a chain reaction that they weren’t even sure would work. They certainly weren’t thinking about students at The Blue Goose twenty years in the future. The awareness of the bomb’s potential came after the Trinity test and as the implications of nuclear weapons became more obvious and the post World War II world began to take shape. There were to be protests around the world. There were to be recriminations. There were to be the true horror stories of what happened at Ground Zero. There were to be accusations of disloyalty made against some of the scientists who wanted to harness the power of the atom for peaceful purposes and discourage its use as a military weapon. There was, in other words, to be the luxury of hindsight.

Los Alamos reminds me of the controversy surrounding WWII Bomber Command. At a time when Britain stood alone and at one point had only two-weeks’ worth of food for the island, the niceties of bombing only military targets seemed beside the point. No one wanted deliberately to bomb civilians, but in the struggle for survival they died on both sides. When the RAF and then the RCAF and the USAF took the war to Germany, the point was to win. Looking back on the bombing and the incredible loss of life both among the aircrews and those on the ground, some revisionist historians have tried to rewrite history to the intense annoyance of the surviving aircrews who risked their lives and watched their comrades—my father among them—drop to a fiery death. But nothing is clear-cut during wartime. I remember bomb craters in the roads in my hometown of Brighton on England’s south coast. I heard how adults still talked about the Blitz in London and how they said bombing Germany was getting a bit of our own back. It’s only natural that perspectives change with time and victory.

Much the same has happened at Los Alamos. When it comes to how we view the Manhattan Project and the scientists working on it, it seems to me that we have a choice. We can look only at the devastation caused by the splitting of the atom and decry the waste of the arms race that ensued. Many have done that and I can recall protesters in London waving placards saying ‘Ban the Bomb.’ Or we can marvel at the fact that the work was achieved at all, let alone under conditions of extreme security and haste, and understand that it was part and parcel of the time that spawned it. Perhaps we need to do a bit of both. But however we choose to view the work conducted at Los Alamos, we need to acknowledge that it changed our world forever.

Hail to the Chief

One of the joys of Denver is the number of the trails close in to the city. Oh sure, there is great hiking all throughout the state, but Denver’s trails are special because they are both spectacular and within an hour or so of the city. It’s also possible never to hike the exact same one twice—a change of season means the trails can be vastly different—and there are plenty of them: a Forest Service map shows just how many.

We’ve done a lot around Golden and Evergreen, but yesterday we found a gem: Chief Mountain. Even though we were told it is well-loved, we’d never heard of it before, nor of the ski area, Echo Mountain, just across the road from the trailhead. But before I get to that, a little background.

A few weeks ago, finding myself grown a little tubby, I proposed to Sid that we start climbing again rather than just walking. He was happy to agree. He’d taken me up to the top of Loveland Pass on our second date (the first one was snow shoeing at Jones Pass—you can’t say I wasn’t warned), which was nearly our last date. But I survived and realized that Colorado is best seen from the top of things—high things like mountains.

The apex of my climbing career was getting to the top of Gray’s Peak and Mount Bierstadt, but then I encountered a snowboarder at Copper and hurt my knees, which promptly swelled up like little melons. I suggested that for a time at least we hike around the Denver foothills instead of sleeping in the truck and trying to bag fourteeners. That’s when we started hiking the Denver trails and I realized how differently Sid and I look at things.

Sid will do the same trail repeatedly if he likes the degree of challenge and if it fits into his training routine (be that what it may at the time). I, on the other hand, am fickle. I want new trails and new scenery. The challenge for us is to find a trail with enough pitch to keep him happy and his heart rate up and with enough scenery to keep me not thinking about my knees. The Chief Mountain trail is all uphill although it’s never to the point of bouldering (except at the very top and you don’t have to do that unless your pride demands it), so Sid had a nice workout and once we cleared timber line, I had all the scenery I could ever want. Sid is not given to superlatives. His “not bad” means “very good” (I think). He proclaimed the Chief Mountain trail, “very nice,” which is excellent, again I think.

I find it interesting that even after eight years together I still have to guess what Sid is feeling. I know he enjoyed the mountain as much as I did, but I also know that if I try to press him further to explain, he will look at me with exasperation and say something like “I just told you.”

I suspect this has to be a guy and maybe a generational thing. The men I've been around seem to have a shorthand that they intuitively understand when they talk with one another, and if they don’t understand one another completely—well, they seem able to live with it. Women on the other hand, speaking for myself, seem to have the need to communicate something purposeful, even if it is just gossip. Men gossip too—oh lord can they—but not for the same reason. They don't seem to be bonding or trying to see if everyone is on board or trying to find some hidden motive for why people behave as they do (as if anyone can ever know).

I wonder if there is a new proposition here: that men not only think vertically but also communicate that way (if this doesn’t make sense to you, check out my previous blog on vertical and horizontal). Abraham Lincoln once said something like it's better to be thought a fool than open your mouth and prove it. I look back on the number of times that I have done just that. But I gave other people the chance to shine and I learned something in the process. I guess I would rewrite the president a little: sometimes it is generous to open your mouth even if you do look foolish--but I wouldn't make a practice of it.

When we got back, I had delusions of grandeur since I’d done so well on the trail and suggested that we try for another fourteener. We slept on it. Today I am gloriously stiff and even Sid admitted that he took an advil. Mais, ou sont les neiges d’antan?

Into the Fun House

I’ve just woken up from eleven hours of sleep preceded by two day-naps and am finally feeling more or less alive—that means I’ve just come back from Las Vegas. The Strip these days is a marathon survival course: 105 degrees in the day and non-stop temptation at night. I overheard the cabin attendant on the plane back to Denver saying that she had spent four days leave in Vegas and had slept only eight hours during that whole time. That’s not surprising because the hotels have nothing in the rooms to encourage you to stay out of the casinos. There wasn’t even a coffee maker in our otherwise luxurious room in the Bellagio—just tons of booze in the room fridge.

After a couple of drinks, though, it didn’t really seem to matter where you were. Hotels began to look alike—one large casino room in the middle of a theme park. You had to look for the lions to know it was the MGM or the Italianate marble floors and elaborate garden for the Bellagio, the Egyptian frieze to know it was Ceasar’s, the close-up of a woman’s behind in a thong to know it was Bally’s, or the New York shop fronts or the French stores etc. etc. Otherwise the machines were the same, the card tables were the same, the mini-dressed cocktail servers were the same, the important-looking people in a hurry with their with walkie-talkies were the same, and the gigantic statuary (griffins, lions, athletes etc) were the same.

But if Las Vegas itself has a sameness once the novelty wears off, that can’t be said for the people. English was definitely only one language among many. This wasn’t the Manolo shoes or Dior and Armani crowd. These were people happy to wear t-shirts spelling out the words Las Vegas in rhinestones. Children were few and far between and even those were misbehaving as if they knew they were where they shouldn’t be. When we checked in, three little Asian girls were playing chase around the fountains in the extremely crowded lobby. No one said a thing. What plays in Vegas stays in Vegas, after all.

The Bellagio’s casino floor was actually fairly quiet except for the din of atonal chimes and the occasional loud music announcing some bonus spin. Husbands and wives occupied side by side slot machines, playing what looked like traditional diamond games. Single women went more for the theme machines: hoot loot, wheel of fortune, Texas Tea which made a mooing sound if you won, Cleopatra, Blue Coyote which howled etc. Single men tended to either play the card tables or sit seriously at the slots, dragging on their cigarettes or cigars and taking a long time before pushing the spin button or pulling the arm—as if willing the machines to produce the solid payline. Some spent hours at the same machine. They probably broke even with the free drinks though, which was about the only free thing in the entire city.

The casino floor at the Wynn did come alive at 1:30 am—which is why I was short on sleep. A group of young women on a girls’ night out took up station in front of the Oz machine. They cheered everything. They cheered the wicked witch, they cheered Judy when she said they didn’t seem to be in Kansas any more, they cheered Glenda, they even cheered winning two quarters when they were playing five. Only the action from the men over at the dice table rivaled them. A roar would go up when the dice fell out the right way. There’s nothing like doing something physical, it seems, when you’re out for a night on the town and just want fun.

In the end having fun—or trying to—is really what Las Vegas is about. I’ve found that after the initial novelty wears off, gambling can be rather boring unless you’re serious about it and unless you are winning. It’s always amazing to me how everyone says they win. Maybe losing is not something you want to admit. I will. I won and lost several fortunes in my two days: up $40, down $40, up $30, down $30, finally ending down $30 again. Like everyone else I hate losing money, but I look on it as a money raffle. Just maybe one day I’ll be lucky.

What I really do appreciate are the fabulous food, the amazing opulence, and the glorious over-the-top excess of casinos trying to out do one another. It’s something like Oz—over the rainbow, a yellow brick road through the casinos, confusion about how to get out of the place, no sleep unless you lie down in the poppies—and, like the wizard, not real at all.

Fantasy and Unreality

I’m off to Las Vegas on Sunday to spend two luxurious days with Kimi at the Bellaggio Hotel, where she’s got us very good mid-week rates. We try to get together on our birthdays which are close together in August except that she is one year younger—something she reminds me of now and then. She drives up from Los Angeles and I’ll be flying Frontier—I like their tail animals and they still let me check one bag free.

Given the fact that I am not only one year older than Kimi but that I will also be celebrating(?) my 65th, I decided that my usual slacks and t-shirts needed some updating so I trekked on down to Saks Off Fifth at Castle Rock Outlets (I never said I wasn’t going to be cheap chic) and happily found myself in the middle of a sale. There was even the magic word clearance.

On the way home. It suddenly occurred to me that I might have gone about the whole business backwards. I hadn’t done any research. I didn’t know whether the things I had bought were last year’s rejects. I know designers say to make things your own, but what if I was going to be what my mother called “mutton done up as a lamb”? I wasn’t about to take anything back, but the niggle of doubt led me to pick up the latest copy of Vogue at the supermarket to see what was “hot.”

I haven’t looked at Vogue for years—make that many years—not since I figured that anything the models wore was going to look awful on me. A particular model, in fact, was probably one of only about ten women in the nation who could wear the outfit and not look like something I would flee if I met her in the street. Actually, there were a good number of models that I would run away from—the dark circles around their eyes made them look like depraved raccoons. But I digress.

This edition of Vogue attracted me because it was supposedly about looking good at any age, a topic dear to my heart. The sections were devoted to the decades. Women in their nineties were represented by John McCain’s mother who is 96. Somehow this lady occupies a different universe from mine: when she was told she was too old to rent a car in Europe, she bought a Mercedes Benz and left it there for future travels. She looks aggressively good and she has opinions to match. I’m afraid that I found her more intimidating than inspiring. Diahann Carroll represented the 70s, looking impossibly gorgeous with smooth, unwrinkled skin. Mia Farrow was the 60s and Chrissie Evert, looking like a mermaid in sleek evening gown, was the 50s.

Each of them was a reproach to those among us (like me) with wrinkles and bulges we have not addressed. Clearly, Vogue is suggesting that to look our age is our own negligence. Of course, each of these ladies has one thing in common—they all have uncommon resources. That makes all the difference, and lest anyone not understand how such unreality and fantasy of eternal beauty and youth come about, Vogue includes an article on the latest miracle surgery, including knee and elbow lifts, all of which is pricey. But then Vogue always was about money just as Vanity Fair was always about edgy eccentricity.

If I were willing to part with the money, I might consider a neck lift if only to feel socially responsible. After all, what I have done lately for the cause of remaining perpetually forty and for helping the surgeon buy his wife a new Mercedes? But I’m not willing to either shell out or put up with the recovery. I suppose I might consider it if I was worried that my husband was eying younger, dishy girls who had no scruples about the latest “tweak” (as Vogue calls it). Otherwise, I look at the costs and imagine what else I could be doing with the money. For me, it's like playing golf--around about the 9th hole, I start thinking of all the other things I could be doing with the time. That's why I don't play any more. To slightly misquote Groucho Marx, I wouldn't want to be part of any foursome that would have me.

I guess I'll just have to make do with visiting to Las Vegas with Kimi--that's probably as close to fantasy and unreality as I am going to get.