When Cavemen Vote

Barack Obama is all talk. More than an empty suit, he is stupid.

Hillary Clinton is a power hungry shrew who will stop at nothing to gain the Presidency. She will arrange for Obama's assassination if it appears she is destined to lose the primary election battle.

Both of these sentiments are ubiquitous in the discussion threads of political Web sites, staining and obscuring what little thoughtful dialogue can be found there. Even the redoubtable Erica Jong is not immune. In an ill-considered polemic on the Huffington Post, Ms. Jong let her fury cloud her judgment, baselessly intimating that Barack Obama offers no more than "soundbites and attacks on 'the' Clintons." Particularly ironic was that the pitch of her 12-paragraph shriek only served to reinforce the very same false stereotypes about women that she has debunked so artfully over her lifetime.

Was she in this instance a pawn of her own hormones?

Whatever its source, hyperbole about Clinton or Obama arrives always cloaked in terms superlative and self-discrediting. But while we may dismiss the ravings of those intent on instigating discord, it's instructive to consider the role that emotions play in heightening our political enthusiasms and distastes, and eventually turning us all into blathering idiots.

Evolution has equipped the human psyche in wondrous ways. Unfortunately, most of the tools she has equipped us with are designed to protect us from charging tigers, or to assist us to confront feces-flinging upstarts in our clan. We have made successful physical adaptations in civilization's brief time frame. For instance, in a mere few thousand years of bovine domestication we have come to produce the enzymes that digest cow's milk. Meanwhile the kinds of dangers and challenges to our status we must face have evolved as much as our dietary habits. Peril wields carcinogens rather than claws, and every super model that pouts at us from billboards is a seratonin-depressing put-down. These are elements of the new that we have not learned to digest. In fact, it appears that we may require some millions of years to rewire the infinitely multilayered interraleation of our emotions to metabolism and behavior. In other words, we confront the modern world with the emotional equivalent of rocks and pointed sticks.

Make no mistake, the outpouring of bile in this primary process is not the result of conflicting opinions about policy. Its triggers are primitive. Are we being relegated to a second-tier status because we are black, or because we are female? Will we feel personally shamed by a less-bellicose stance towards Iran? Is our place in the social hierarchy threatened when others question our judgment based on our support for one candidate or the other? Who dares affront the tribe of Obama? Or of Hillary? These are the keys to our emotional floodgates. And when the sluice opens, we behave in ways that might make sense when our spouse flirts with another partner, or when there's a burglar in the house, but that are remarkably stupid in the context of a political debate.

For example, when we percieve a danger, we become acutely sensitive to input that we associate with that threat. In the burglar scenario, we become conscious of even the subtlest sounds. Are those footsteps we hear in the hall? In this state, we tolerate a high incidence of false positives--suddenly every creak and clink we hear is an intruder--but our heightened alert might save our lives, and the downside is no worse than a night's sleep lost.

But in the political dialogue, our paranoia is expressed in letters and conversations, and takes on a corrosive life of its own. It evokes equal and opposite defensive responses in others, and is sustained and amplified in the echo chamber of 24-hour news and online social media.

More importantly, as feeling intensifies in response to percieved threats, all our mental capacity is directed towards immediate sef-defense. Our mind gathers itself for an imminent leap, whether to hide, or attack, or to flee. As a result, we reserve little capacity for deliberate and considered thinking. And I'm sorry to tell you that we didn't have much of a surplus in that area to begin with.

So we find ourselves reduced to an animal state. But if we could collect ourselves for just a moment, we would see how ludicrous is most of the shouting. I suppose it's possible that Barack Obama is a dim bulb, but if so, shouldn't he get some sort of credit for slipping under everyone's radar to become an editor of the Harvard Law Review? And perhaps Hillary will take out a contract on Obama's life, but he'll have plenty of warning because someone on the review committee she's sure to convene on the matter will certainly leak their plans to the press.

And it's not just crackpot opinions like these that have garnered unwarranted credibility. Many of the narratives espoused by an enflamed electorate and boosted by a craven corporate media--hungry as ever for the drama that makes advertising gravy--have little grounding in likely reality. I'll go on the record right now to contest each of these memes.

If Obama maintains a solid lead in non-superdelagates after March 4, there will be a tide of superdelegates eager to demonstrate their respect for the popular will by coming to his support.

If Obama is clearly the popular choice, Hillary Clinton will not implement a burnt earth policy and destroy the Democratic party in a fit of pique. Instead she will gracefully and honorably step aside, voice her support for the nominee, and work to ensure his election in November.

If Hillary wins the popular vote fair and square--which is the only way she'll get or accept the nomination--Democrats that supported Obama will rally to her side. Likewise, Hillary's supporters will stand behind Obama if he is the nominee.

And unless there is a sea change in public sentiment before November, the presidential contest will not be nail bitingly close. Voter turnout during this primary season clearly shows there is enormous enthusiasm on the Democratic side, and a significant lack of the same for the Republicans. When you consider how close the 2000 and 2004 contests were, 2008 is looking like a relative no-brainer.

All this will come to pass. Unless some reader has just said "jinx."

One final point about emotion and politics. It is clear that many are attracted to Obama because he moves them, and they have been seeking such a connection. And it is just as clear that many of Clinton's supporters cleave to her campaign because they are wary of good feelings as a substitute for competence. But like it or not, emotion remains a key factor--arguably the dominant factor--in determining how we relate to everyone we encounter. It determines whether we listen to them, whether we give them the benefit ofthe doubt, whether we forgive them when they err, and whether we follow where they lead. The broader the audience, the more important emotional appeal becomes, because while you may be able to get most people to agree they like you, you will never get them to agree on a health care plan. And nobody has to sway a broader audience than the President.

At least, that's how I feel.

Hillary, the Wedding is Off

Has an American national political contest ever been so utterly transfigured in so short a time as the race between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama?

Just a few short weeks ago, we were falling inexorably, willingly into the waiting arms of the woman we knew would protect and provide for us. Sure, we flirted a little bit with the boys at the bar. We felt a thrill when our hand "accidentally" brushed John Edwards' knee under the table. We admired Bill Richardson's Latino éclat. But we were just having a little fun before settling down to eight years of blessed sanity and nutritious policy.

The prospect wasn't exciting, but we'd had enough excitement to last our lives. Our previous relationship left us broke, disillusioned, and inclined to flinch in response to any sudden movement. We had learned our lesson, and we were determined to exercise better judgment this time. Hillary cared for us, we knew. Might not respect and admiration blossom into a warmer devotion in the fullness of time?

And then... There he was.

He had been there all along of course. Why didn't we notice? Was he wearing a new tie? Had he shaved off his goatee?

Or was it the incandescent bolt of heaven's white light that set his chiseled profile aflame?
Our heart raced. Our blood rushed. Our minds went all higgledy piggledy. And we think we might throw up.

Oh my God, we're in love.

Political campaigns pass from phase to phase in ways that often seem predictable in hindsight, and this latest turn of events is no exception. We watched Barack and Hillary debate prior to Super Tuesday and vainly endeavored to detect meaningful policy distinctions. We were like a child trying to choose between two cupcakes in a bakery display. Does one have a more icing than the other? We closed one eye and bent over to get a fresh sight line.

Then there was a flash. And when our vision cleared, it was a new world. And we discovered that our two cupcakes could not be more different.

Obama's astounding Super Tuesday comeback, in which he erased a double-digit deficit to achieve near-parity in a mere two weeks, attests to the sea change that occurred. Much of the credit for the turnaround is due to the man himself and his magnetic appeal. But there was calculation as well. He and his staff envisioned this transmogrification and consciously positioned themselves to reap the windfall of the moment, lighting match after match under the Democratic electorate and praying feverishly that the flame would catch before it was too late.

But if the punditocracy was caught off guard, it was because they were so busy watching the spark that they ignored the tinder. In short, they underestimated the magnitude and intensity of latent emotion in American voters. It seemed that the race would be about a return to competence and stability, that political cynicism was so deeply ingrained in the American psyche that it could only be courted, not confronted.

But now it is clear that we were primed for an emotional outpouring. We were a super-saturated solution just waiting for the faintest touch of the catalyst that instantaneously alters everything. Obama is that catalyst, and what is precipitating now is a genuine political fervor. This was supposed to be Hillary's moment. Didn't she check all the right boxes? She's smart, hardworking, right-thinking, and intimately associated with a past that most regard--with their usual selective and myopic recall--as days of wine and roses.

But in the context of this new narrative, the promise of competence and safety is underwhelming, and to wish for a return to the familiar ways and faces of the Clinton years seems an act of cowardice.

Yes, we enjoyed Bill's homespun wit, his studied good-old-boy affectation, and his bedroom eyes. He charmed and soothed us, and he was a perfect match for his time. Oil was at $10 a barrel and the stock market was juiced. Who wanted to make waves?

And he left us with fond memories. That's why when Hillary asked if it would be alright if he lived in our basement for a while after the wedding, we agreed.

But no cabinet post. And he buys his own groceries. And as soon as he gets a job, he has to find his own apartment.

We concede Hillary's impressive resume and talent. But let's not pretend the choice before us is purely one of head versus heart. Obama is not some smooth-talking Lothario looking to seduce an America on the rebound. There's a reason that the most educated segment of voters trend strongly his way, and it's more than his dreamy eyes. But at the same time, it's undeniable that the Obama juggernaut is driven by emotion. Does that mean we are setting ourselves up for disappointment? Is the excitement imbuing us with a fleeting and fickle courage doomed to evaporate in the face of adversity?

No.

This outpouring of faith and feeling does not displace our hopes for administrative success, for legislative progress, for remade international relationships and a thriving economy. Rather it is an indispensable vessel to carry those hopes to fruition. Those who think this enthusiasm speeds us on a fool's errand, consider: For many decades we have repressed all traces of political idealism within ourselves, always seeking safety, predictability and stasis. Doing so has served, at best, only to ensure that as we marched drearily into poverty and disrepute, we did so to a steady beat.

Now, the problems we confront are more daunting than any in our history. Global warming requires an internationally coordinated response for which no prior model exists. Our economic woes are the product of suffocating debt and permanent resource scarcity; if there is a cure, it will not be pleasant. Our relationship with the international community is going through a change more profound than any since the end of the second World War. Policy alone, no matter how brilliant, simply will not bring us intact through the challenges to come. We'll need a leader who knows how to cultivate the qualities of optimism, restraint, and selflessness within us, and how to wring out every ounce when the going gets rough.

That is why this tide of emotion is more than relevant. It is the crucial prerequisite of whatever success can follow.

But the biggest change we will make is the one we've already begun.

You see, Obama doesn't talk about what he is going to do. He talks about what we are going to do. And in that phrasing, he expresses the most frightening truth that any politician can utter. A truth so terrifying that no President has whispered it in almost 50 years. He is telling us that the problem has never been our leaders.

The problem is us.

It's a mortifying realization. But if we broke it, doesn't that mean we can fix it too? So we're going to solve our problem. We're going to say "yes" to the notion that government can be better than it has been. Whatever comes after, we will never regret it. Because saying "yes" isn't the precursor to a triumph. It is the triumph.

So that's it, baby. It's not you. It's us. We're sorry it had to end this way. We never meant to hurt you.

You can keep our CDs. But we want our superdelegates back.

Dear Book Publishers: OK, I'll Do It.

Hello.

Did you know that for every minute you spend reading this brief note, a puppy slated to be euthanized is placed in a loving home?

As you think about that, let me introduce myself. I am a writer. A professional, just like a doctor or lawyer, but with fewer lives saved and less education. Lately I have become possessed of a great notion: to write a book in which I divertingly anatomize themes in popular culture, politics, current events, science and history, deftly draw novel analogies between seemingly unrelated disciplines, and make fun of cats and foreign countries. All to highlight just how screwed we are.

I don't pretend that I am telling you anything new. By reading this far you have demonstrated discernment and a piercing intellect. So I think you already know exactly how thoroughly and hopelessly you are screwed. I can do nothing to un-screw you, or myself, or the god-forsaken planet we live on. For that you will need the doctors and lawyers. I am just a writer and much too busy to salvage the future of mankind. What I can do however is to somehow make you feel OK about the horrifying fate in store for us.

I'm just that good.

Let me give you an example. Did you ever consider that even though we think of ourselves as individuals, our bodies are really made up of gajillions of cells that are living creatures unto themselves, all rubbing themselves all over each other like a pile of dogs in heat and literally swimming in each others most personal fluids? It's (a) true, (b) disgusting, and (c) pretty funny if you think about it.

No, I am not stoned.

It is well-established that the archetypal ancestors of our cells lived as individuals, roaming free on the primordial earth. At one time there weren't even complex cells with flagellum—those tails that cells whip back and forth to commute to work in the morning. There were some cells that were just whips, thrashing around pointlessly, and other cells perhaps sophisticated enough to invent an instrument like the bassoon and learn to play it brilliantly, but with no means of locomotion. The latter lived their brief lives on the margins of tepid ponds, eating only what was available by delivery, like a person so fat that they will not leave their home until they die and two Mexicans pull down enough of the front door frame to get a forklift into the living room.

But over the eons, evolution grafted the hyperactive tails to the fat asses of their more sedentary neighbors, and then proceeded to snap those new franken-cells together with other cells to create ever larger, more capable and stupider looking composite critters, until she finally—and quite by accident—created a critter mean-spirited and selfish enough to undo all the accomplishments of the previous 500 million years of progress. Which was particularly lamentable, because that was when evolution had done some of her best work.

I think you know what critters I'm talking about. Let's all give ourselves a big round of applause.

Soon it will be all over. We will prod our ecosystem into collapse, be engulfed by our own filth and incompetence, and in the hysterical enthusiasm to embrace our doom display a stunningly shameful lack of dignity and humanity. But of course, we need not feel mortified because no one will ever know we existed, and so no one will ever be flabbergasted by what a bunch of losers we proved to be.

But after we're gone, all the cells that have been rowing us through history like slaves on a Greek trireme will be free to roam those limited portions of the planet with low enough toxicity to support organic life, and they won't have to go to Target with us ever again.

Won't that be nice for them?

OK. See that? That was just off the top of my head. Bam! I can do that like two times a day. And the beauty part is that if you already knew all that I said, it serves as a validation of your own superiority, which makes up for the fact that reading it was a waste of time. And if the information was new to you, did you notice how I taught you something fresh and fascinating without for a moment making you feel self-conscious about your own shocking and unforgivable ignorance?

This is my gift. And I want to share it with the world. For money.

Wouldn't you like to get your hands on some of that sugar? You know you would.

Here's my proposal. I'm looking for someone to sustain me in considerable luxury while I think these ideas through. I'll want to sequester myself in the privacy of a top floor suite at the Las Vegas Bellagio with only a single she-goat for fresh milk and an epic supply of vodka. With God's help, and frequent changes of underwear, I think I can squeeze this sucker out in about six months. Faster if the advance is right.

I know what you're thinking: Where do I sign?

Whoa there, big fella. A girl likes to get to know a guy before she shows him what's under her duvet. However, I am not a girl. I am ready to go RIGHT NOW. All you need to do is respond to this note with one word: YES. And a check so large that it simply blows me away.

Tomorrow you may wake and wonder: what have I done? You might even be inclined to pick up the phone and cancel the payment you sent.

Do not do that.

Think how humiliating it will be if your boss finds out that you nearly bet the entire future of your company on an unknown writer based on a patently manipulative, if brilliantly conceived, one-page email of uncertain origin. Were you on crack? Place the phone receiver back on the hook. Next, visit each of the links below to read some samples of my work, praying feverishly all the while that you will therein find some inkling of the talent that yesterday led you to throw away your career and with it, your family's future.

Consider the incandescent wit of a little piece titled Nuclear Holocaust was Better Than Global Warming in which I conclude that it is far better to be immolated in a flash of all-consuming plasmic flame than to be asphyxiated by slow degrees.

Be repulsed from the first sentences of my exposé of public servants and role models who cannot keep their pants zipped in restrooms. Then read on, so that their lurid trysts and vile hypocrisy repulses you again and again.

Do your part to defend the institution of marriage. The gays want it all for themselves. Fight for your sense of martyrdom and your tax write-offs!

Quake when confronted with the implications of the coming police state heralded by a regime of surveillance more invasive than anything your parents subjected you to when you were seventeen.

And what's so bad about Jimmy Carter? Do you find peanut farming and Gomer Pyle accents funny, Mr. Tough Guy?

Read them. Then read them again. The second reading will not alter whatever opinion you developed on first perusal, but it will allow a few precious hours more for your check to clear.

There. Now our fates are bound up together. We have both wagered all on my success. Or, actually, you have wagered all. Should I fail, or fail to even try, I will still be one fat book advance richer than I am today. You, however, will be utterly ruined.

So will begin our roller-coaster relationship. In your old age, you will look back on this time with wistful fondness, testimony to the power of senility to replace your actual memories with different memories that have no basis in fact.

Call me and leave a message, asking whether I've begun work. Call me again and leave another message to inquire why I did not respond to your first call. Call me. Call and call and call until my voice mailbox is full. Call a plumber to remove the hair that is falling out in clumps and clogging your shower drain. Phase one of our love affair is complete.

Open the filthy package that arrives at your office. Take the tattered manuscript from the envelope and weep with relief to be holding some physical product of our partnership. Clutch it lovingly in your shaking hands, but do not read it. Why take a chance on extinguishing the only flicker of hope that has illuminated your withered soul in months? Send it to the printer!

Meet me in person at last. Feel underwhelmed. Have one too many mojitos. I'm like a motorcycle wreck. You can't look away.

Send me on a book tour. Christ! What the hell is the matter with me? Why won't I bathe? Do I even own a tie? Field angry calls from your press agents around the country.

Despair.

A messenger arrives. You have sold four million copies in the Netherlands. Induce vomiting just before the barbiturates enter your blood stream.

Roll out an international marketing campaign. Leverage accusations of plagiarism to generate publicity. Make more money than you know what to do with. Settle out of court. Grace the cover of Publisher's Weekly and be promoted to CEO. Be despised for your success by every single person in the business.

This could be your fairy tale. Call me. Just this once, I will answer.

Sincerely,

Your future star client

No Rules Means No Cheaters

This week, the Supreme Court dismissed a lawsuit that sought to hold Wall Street bankers liable for losses stemming from the collapse of Enron.

The plaintiff's contended that said bankers conspired to conceal Enron's vulnerabilities from investors. But the court ruled in this instance, as in several others recently, that responsibility should rest exclusively with the liars at companies like Enron, not with the nice people in the financial services industry (is there any other industry left? Oh, right--I always forget about pharmaceuticals and pornography...) who so cheerfully delivered those lies to you and I.

And isn't that only fair? Don't investment bankers put on the pants of their $5,000 Armani suits one leg at a time like the rest of us? Or have their valets do it one leg at a time for them? Aren't they struggling to put food on the table for their families, just like any feedlot salesman in rural Texas. Except with different food. On a nicer table. In a bigger house. And with a staff to handle the dishes. What I'm trying to say is, aren't we all the same mortal clay, trying to make ends meet? And isn't that all the harder when one end is at a beach house in Maui and the other is with the children at their prep school in Connecticut?

After the case was dismissed, Antonin Scalia was emotionally overcome with sympathy for the heroes of high finance. Later, that most soft-hearted of Supreme Court Justices sought to blot out the tormenting images of suffering bankers by making himself a cup of hot cocoa and flicking lit matches at orphans soaked in gasoline.

So the financial services industry will emerge unscathed from the Enron disaster. And after a weekend of celebratory high-fiving, meth binges and raucous circle jerks, they will buckle down on Monday morning and find new pyramid schemes to misrepresent.

Yes, they are abhorrent. Yes, they should be ashamed, and probably would be if they hadn't had their sense of honor surgically extracted to create for themselves the same sort of career advantage possessed by prostitutes with removable dentures. But does the ultimate responsibility lie with the bankers or with the regulations under which they operate? If the rules of boxing awarded extra points for blows to the kidneys and testicles, who would be a dirty fighter?

I'm sure this notion will offend the mechanical flag-wavers, were it possible for opposing viewpoints to pierce the Fox News-hardened protective bubble of their obliviousness. This is America, they'll shout, the land of fair play! Regulation is the great enemy of prosperity! If you knee-cap our entrepreneurial enthusiasm with your schoolmarmish delicacy regarding con games and loansharking, how will we be able to afford the Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts we need to look our best when Jesus returns?

Fair play? America may believe in a level playing field, but fair is anything you can get away with. And if you can get away with tilting the playing field, that's OK too.

Law has always been more important in this country than in the old world. In Romania they have thousands of years of custom--most of which relates to proper ways for killing Jews--to serve in law's stead. But America is basically one giant trailer park. The only customs dictate quiet time after 10 pm on weeknights and who has dibs on the sceptic hookups. Without rules and regulation, we'd be living in... well, exactly the kind of chaos we have today.

So make no mistake, we have both a people problem and a rule problem. The people problem is profoundly intractable. People are just awful, and if God made them, he has a crappy sense of humor.

But the rules problem is correctable. If we can get the people to make the necessary corrections. Wherein it is possible that even a small degree of optimism is misplaced.

For today, "regulation" is as dirty a word as it has been at any time in our brief and tawdry history. The perceived causal relationship between the scuttling of so many structural constraints over the last 25 years and the false sense of general prosperity over that same time frame has reinforced the negative image of regulation in any form. There is no question that each President since Carter has wiped his ass with the pages torn from our country's regulatory rulebook, and that G.W. Bush is a man that uses a lot of toilet paper. The authenticity of the affluence generated in that interval is debatable, however. First, like all compulsive gamblers, we tend to retain clearer impressions of our wins than our losses. Second, much of the residue of success that persists after the bursting of the technology and real estate bubbles reflects money borrowed from countries that build their wealth by producing actual things of value, rather than simply delivering pizzas to each other. Payback will be a bitch, as our children will discover soon enough.

But the perception of regulation as an evil persists. And if a free market is good, than isn't a free-er market even better? Shouldn't we make the market so fucking free that the Chicago commodities exchange will grow wings and soar away westward over Minnesota? The answer of course, is no. And not just because of the dangers that an aviating financial center would pose to the good people of Rotchester and St. Paul.

You see, balance is good. Every empirical faculty we possess tells us this is so. In an engine we need just so much fuel and so much air. Creatures in the ocean need just so much salinity and no more. And our financial system needs just the right mix of constraints and flexibility.

The problem is that our culture holds nothing but contempt for moderation and balance. We are the land of 80-hour work weeks, of obesity and anorexia, of multitasking so frenetic that we are developing a new generation of personal music devices designed to respond to contractions of the sphincter, so that we won't have to stop text messaging when we want to skip to the next song. We demand that everyone give 110%, though it leads not only to insurmountable paradox, but pulled hamstrings as well.

Admittedly, our unfettered aversion to fetters has spurred our tremendous material advancement over the years. There are eastern cultures, Hindu and Buddhist, that in contrast to us aspire to optimal balance in all things. And in case you hadn't noticed, an inordinate number of those people are at this moment covered with flies and sitting in a pool of raw sewage. Yet our pedal-to-the-metal economy delivers plenty of volatility and uneven distribution of wealth as it lurches from bubble to bust. And the ratio of good times to bad is likely to deteriorate as we hurl ourselves kamikaze-style against the business end of a hockey-stick curve of debt, energy costs, and a living standard unsustainably out of level with the rest of the planet.

Don't look for any populist groundswell in support of regulation, however. Ironically, no constituency is more protective of our wild west marketplace than those who suffer most egregiously from its fallout: the poor. While the wealthy may welcome the security reasonable regulation provides for gains already accrued, those without are terrified to think that the paths to quick riches might be closed before they get their own millions. It is the simplest of propaganda parlor tricks to convince them that affluence is just around the corner, and to provoke a feral response with the canard that regulators want to take it away. Advocates of preserving and extending the most brutally Darwinian and unalloyed form of free enterprise can feel confident that the unwashed masses are behind them. And hopefully downwind as well.

The Enron fiasco is only one of the smaller calamities precipitated by a lack of regulation in recent years. Remember when all those savings and loan institutions went belly up? That was the result of a regulation failure. And the current mortgage credit crisis is entirely the result of fabulously ill-conceived lending instruments, deceptive selling practices and dishonest risk representation of just the sort that regulation could have prevented. Dr. Moreau himself would only genuflect to the mad financial wizards who created these taxonomy-defying devices. It's no surprise that average home buyers didn't know what they were getting into, but Fed Chairman Bernard Bernanke, a certified genius who is keenly aware that any display of uncertainty on his part can have devastating consequences confessed that he did not have a clue as to how these financial instruments worked. Perhaps it was all a practical joke gone awry. If so, somebody needs to get canned.

There is a moment in a tragedy-bound joyride when the car teeters on the verge of control, and the riders are still shouting with glee, even as their overtaxed synapses begin to furiously fire messages of doom. That's where we are right now. Sadly though, no lesson will be learned unless we hit a tree.

Until then--Wheeeeee!!!!

Tell the Aliens I'm Too Busy to See Them Now

So the aliens have arrived.

America greets this news with a selection of emotions as limited as our culinary palate. There is fear, but it so thoroughly blends in to the maelstrom of other terrors that unrelentingly prick the margins of our consciousness that this newest horror quickly becomes indistinct. What is up with that mole on our shoulder? Do we look fat? Is it possible that 24-year old fucktard who lives on the corner makes more money than us? And yes, our penis exceeds average length, but what about girth? All these frights simmer endlessly on the burners of our brain, a vile and noisome gumbo, and who is to say that it is the flying saucers that are making us wretch?

For long-time believers in the existence of extra terrestrial beings, this is a moment of triumph and validation. Yes, they told us so. I hope that their foresight is rewarded with some position of power in the Venutian regime soon to be established. For I dread being strapped to a board next to one of these know-it-alls, waist deep in an animate, sulfurous mucus while our unseen captors breed generations of offspring in the linings of our exposed intestines. That physical agony will be nothing compared to the psychic torment of listening to my neighbor yammer on smugly about the nutritional requirements of those alien fetuses. If that is to be my fate, tell me so I can slit my own throat now.

But for the overwhelming majority of Americans, the arrival of characters from beyond our solar system has aroused little more then a gentle, fleeting hillock in the flatline of their existence. It is not a case of denial, because to be in denial implies that the conscious mind, having recognized the discomfiting import of a phenomenon, takes the prophylactic step of suppressing the distasteful news. But this is an event utterly beyond our experience, and we have not slots in our head suitable for storing it. As with every first-time experience in our lives, we must sit patiently on our couches, waiting for our television to tell us what it means, and what sort of personal grooming products we must buy as a result.

For me, the emotion most prominently elicited by the arrival of the aliens is exasperation. At this moment, I have an almost limitless amount of shiznit on my plizate. My sixth-grader has a math midterm this week, and apparently this requires me to master his curriculum. I am engaged in a nasty negotiation with my health insurer over co-payments on a colonoscopy. And the world is in political, economic and environmental meltdown and I have no idea what slogan I'm supposed to chant to put things to right.

And now flying saucers? Well, that's just fucking great. I have meetings all day tomorrow, and the grocery store closes in one hour. Tell the men from space to get in line.

What limited mental energy I have dedicated to the UFO problem I have allocated in the hopes of stumbling upon a quick explanation, a logical debunking that will allow me to return my full attention to the trite and pedestrian frustrations that suffuse my every waking moment. But it's backfiring. The more closely I examine the problem, the harder it is to dismiss. Are the witnesses lying? That seems unlikely. Lots of people saw the same thing and it seems they had no opportunity to cook up the story together. Perhaps it was an optical illusion? Possible, but it's odd that the same optical phenomenon was experienced by people observing from a variety of angles. Maybe the flying craft were actually part of a top secret U.S. government military research program? But the notion that America possesses the technology to allow an aircraft to hover, and then silently accelerate to thousands of miles an hour instantaneously, and yet that technology has in no way been deployed commercially to enhance the performance of personal watercraft or to formulate shaving products that provide unparalleled closeness and comfort seems to me even less plausible than the idea of visitors from Andromeda.

And so, reluctantly, I have decided to clear my calendar for the aliens. If they really are out there, I suspect there's a pretty good chance they've been keeping an eye on us for some time, observing us like zookeepers. It seems their intentions are benign. They have overcome the challenges of interstellar travel, and if they haven't atomized us, it can only be because they haven't tried.

If I had to hazard a guess as to the most likely purpose of this unexpected incursion into our planetary airspace, I would have to say it's eco-tourism. They are here to see the pandas, the whales and the penguins. But most of all, they must be fascinated by the homo-sapiens. There is a great debate about us going on at home on Krypton. What the hell is Hip-hop? Is the George Foreman grill some sort of primitive tool, or an object of religious devotion? And of course, they are every bit as confused about the Japanese as we are.

But there is cause for concern. If we are someone's fish tank, they may be wondering why the water is so cloudy of late. One species has gotten a little out of control, it seems, and it is time to cull.

Then so be it. But I hope the human race will be permitted to endure until next Tuesday. I have a dentist's appointment.

Republicans are Chickens

Dear Barack,

Your letters are becoming a nuisance.

At some point you will have to learn to formulate your own message. I cannot always be there to whisper in your ear from offstage and to vet your speeches. I have responsibilities of my own. A family to feed and a demanding job in waste management. The waste will not manage itself. Believe me, I have given it every opportunity.

Must I do everything?

Very well then. But listen carefully--I will only say this once.

I can see that you and your democratic co-candidates are showing signs of shaking off the enervating spell cast upon you by the Republicans. The spell that compels you to respond in kind to their message of fear. For too long you've let them frame the debate. All they have to do is say the word "terror" and, like Skinnerian rats eager for a pellet of food, you respond with mechanical bombast and bravado, promising to begin each of your Presidential days by feasting on the still-beating heart of suspected terrorists, relishing the warm infidel blood that runs rich and red down your neck.

It will never work. If the Presidency is to be awarded to the candidate most eager to flay heathens, can any Democrat possibly defeat the holy warrior Huckabee? The bloodthirsty cannibal Giuliani? Romney the Guantanamo doubler? Or that veteran of Vietnamese tiger-cages, Rambo McCain?

You know this. And you are beginning to see that the Republicans are bluffing when they play the fear card, and that each time you respond in kind, you strengthen their hand, validating not only the perceived reality of the danger but also their ham handed, rusty-knife approach to confronting it. You have begun to experiment with a different formulation, nervously watching the polls to see whether the public is open to something other than a vengeance-based policy.

But half measures won't suffice. You can't just say their bluffing. You will have to actually call their bluff.

Edwards can't do it. He's too busy rousing the rabble, invoking the ghosts of the Grange and William Jennings Bryan. Has he been asleep for the last sixty years? Is there anyone left in this country that even knows what a mill is?

Hillary can't do it either. She is a machine. She may, in fact, be the perfect machine for running the country, an unstoppable policy-making leviathan who will vaporize all resistance like some terminator of the French enlightenment. But she has not oratory beyond that suited to automated corporate telephone systems.

For English, press 1.

This message has to be delivered with the clarion call of trumpets, with fatherly assurance, with the easy courage that dispels doubt.

I know Hillary says you get elected with poetry, but must govern with prose. But note that you haven't been elected yet.

Do you have a pencil ready? This is the message:

The lying is going to stop. Now.

Starting today, we are going to live up to our most noble aspirations rather than be slaves to our basest fears.

For seven long years we have been told that if want to remain powerful, we cannot allow our fate to be bound up with the rest of the world's community of nations, but must instead think and act only in our own interests.

For seven long years we have been told that the preservation of liberty in our own land could be assured by achieving military domination in others.

For seven long years we have been told that if we wanted to preserve our system of justice and our freedom from physical threats, we would have to torture people, we would have to wiretap people, we would have to shoot first and ask questions later, we would have to consider people guilty until proven innocent.

In short, we were told that we had to make a choice. If we wanted to have self-determination, safety, and freedom for ourselves, we must deny it to others.

And so, despite the nagging sensation that we were abandoning our commitment to fair play, our compassion and our humanity, we chose the path of safety.

But these policies have failed. In seeking to preserve our power we have been weakened. In seeking to preserve our liberty we have been constrained. In seeking to be safer, we have inflamed and emboldened those who would do us harm.

Today America is in anguish, more fearful than ever, pessimistic about the future, and convinced that our country is headed in the wrong direction. Not because we have failed to achieve the security we sought, but because we forfeited so much of that of which we were justly proud in the process.

I have some good news. The good news is that we don't have to choose between safety on one hand and honor and humanity on the other. There is only one path to a better future, and it will take us to the safety we seek in a manner consistent with our highest ideals.

We can be the first in an international family of nations again, leading by the power of our example rather than the threat of compulsion.

We can be a true advocate of liberty around the globe, and in so doing, pacify the animosity that put us at risk.

We can be guided by law and justice, and we will once again be a beacon to the world, a country that even those from other lands feel is their own.

When I think about what has transpired in the last seven years, I think we have been like survivors in a lifeboat, abandoning a damaged ship, still trembling with the terror of our brush with death. Of course, we didn't tell themselves that it was fear that denied us the will to go back and save others. We told ourselves that it would be hopeless to try, that there was no more room in the lifeboat, that those still on the ship should have gotten off faster, and had only themselves to blame.

That is not cause to be ashamed. I believe with all my heart that we are good people, striving to be the best we can. We are human, and so sometimes we are weak.

But the measure of our mettle comes after the flush of fear subsides and we see ourselves with clear eyes. There are still some in our life boat who are spreading fear, who seek to cultivate all that is mean and cowardly in us. But in most I see a new courage, a new resolve, and new clarity of purpose.

Yes, it is true that we cannot escape the challenges we face. There is nowhere for our little lifeboat to sail where our safety and ease are assured. So perhaps returning to cast our lot with those we left to try to save themselves is our only choice. But we are going back not because we have to, but because we want to. Because this is an act that will be frozen in time, and we will relive it every day for the rest of our lives. And we will not have it be to our shame, but to our renown.

This new course we are on will not be an easy one. Change is never easy, and there are, of necessity, profound changes lying ahead. But this change is coming, whether we will or no. To survive in a storm, a ship must put its prow to the gale. We will go forward, confident that our course is both wise and right, and at peace in the knowledge that our triumph will be all the greater for the trials that lie ahead.

Thank you, and gesundheit.

Climate Scientists at Prayer

Just yesterday, the Pope weighed in on the subject of climate change. Which is helpful, because what better way to cut through the noise of debate than to get an infallible opinion?

The Pope reportedly intimated that the climate debate was being skewed by a fringe group of unethical, ideologically hidebound charlatans hell bent on obscuring truth and ignoring reason in order to get their way. Just who are these nefarious schemers? No, not the baptists, whose grill one might expect the Pope to be eager to get all up in. The evildoers are--wait for it--the environmentalists! Apparently they have been driven by their Wiccan masters to create a mass illusion of global warming so that they may play midwife to the birth of a brave new world of composting toilets, recumbent bicycles and hackey-sack tournaments.

Needless to say, like any decent satirist, I wept for joy when I heard the report. When, pray, had fertilizer distributor ever backed up a dump truck in a driveway and disgorged six cubic yards of such fecund manure in which to cultivate the pointless and profitless musings of an intellectual mediocrity such as I? In my imagination, I humbly accepted numerous major awards for the riotous, scathing, globally transformative, and yet somehow achingly poignant piece I would soon write on the topic. At the thought of how poignant it would be, tears welled in my eyes again, though I had not the foggiest notion from whence the aforementioned poignancy would be derived.

Just one problem. What the Pope actually said was nothing like what they said he said. Perhaps the pointy hat thingy he wears fell down over his face and momentarily obscured his words.

This was an enormous disappointment. It was like a dream where you are starting your swing on a world series winning homer and suddenly the bat becomes a live chicken and the ball turns into Carol Channing. You awake to the deafening screeching that ensues.

However, I find some small solace in this little dumpling of a thought: the Pope was actually correct when he said what he never said. The environmentalists are close minded ideologues committed to world domination. I ought to know--for I am the most pious of environmentalists.

Though we are a largely ecumenical collection, all environmentalists acknowledge one central, revealed truth: the apocalypse is nigh. Christians, for their part, welcome the apocalypse. It signals the coming of the Messiah, redemption, and the kingdom of God. Though the Bible is short on details with regards to what day to day life will be like after The End, it is generally assumed that in the Kingdom of Christ, gas prices will come down to under a dollar a gallon, fat will be considered attractive, and malls will be open 24/7. On lazy summer evenings, the children will catch fireflies until dusk, and then roast marshmallows over the fresh burning corpses of gays and atheists.

Surely for Christianity these are flush times. They've got a ringer in the White House, the signs of the second coming falling into place like three cherries on a slot machine, and, apparently, unlimited access to meth-dealing male prostitutes. What could be better than that? If they have an enemy right now, it can only be complacency. It's a wonder they don't just lay around in bed all day.

Not so for we environmentalists. We believe that there is no "after" The End. It will be like sleep, but without dreams, and not followed by coffee and pancakes. Ever.

Thus, for us there is no greater goal than the preservation of our own skinny little vegan asses.

You must understand, we don't have a Bible of our own to provide insight as to what the future holds, what meaning there is to existence, or whether it's OK to eat shellfish. Instead we are reliant upon the constantly revised consensus of a class of mystics we call "scientists." Selected based on how smart they look in glasses and how dull they are at parties, they roam the four corners of the globe (which we hold by faith to be spherical, by the way) and look for signs that will tell us what the future holds and what meaning there is to existence.

Once, in ancient times, scientists conducted their investigations by examining the organs of sacrificed sheep, the distribution of scattered cowrie shells, and the patterns of bird flight. Nowadays, they do exactly the same thing, but they have clipboards and they wash their hands frequently. Periodically, our scientists gather together, compare notes, and then issue a statement of belief. And their belief becomes our creed, or canon, if you will.

Right now, our piously held faith with regard to the future is that there isn't going to be one.

You can see why this realization, by itself, would be upsetting. But to fully appreciate the extent of our present discomfiture, you must take into account a second fundamental doctrine of our order, which is that life has no meaning.

Now you might think that believing that life has no intrinsic meaning would incline us to surrender our mortal coils with a shrug of indifference. But counterintuitive as it might seem, though we're not sure why we are living, we are really, really, REALLY certain we don't want to die.

Thus we environmentalists face a paradox framed by core tenets of our own beliefs, an existential crisis analogous to the impending permanent triumph of Satan. Really-really-don't-want-to-die, meet going-to-die. There's plenty of room to debate the opposing views of environmentalists and Christian fundamentalists, but it's pretty obvious which group is more acutely dangerous and likely to lash out. You'd better believe we are reevaluating our pacific tendencies regarding means and ends. And while there may still be a list of things we won't do, we don't need a very big piece of paper on which to write them down.

So what the Pope didn't say was true. But before you Christians settle into the cocoon of smug, smarmy, self-satisfaction with which you are so familiar, consider this. Though you may be inclined to dismiss our scientists because they are a little fuzzy on apostolic theology, they've nonetheless proven to be pretty good about predicting events in the world of the senses. They know why plastic wrap keeps casseroles fresh. They know what combinations of fibers lead to itchy underwear. And they know when there's a good chance that the climate is tipping into patterns of behavior unprecedented during man's time on earth, and likely to be a lot more irritating than any wool-blend briefs.

How's the weather down there in Atlanta? Not getting much rain, are you?

Just because you may not be going to hell anytime soon doesn't mean it's not going to get hot.

Crisis Report: Are There Enough Psychos Left to Run this Government?

News Analysis

The release of a National Intelligence Estimate proclaiming the consensus view of U.S. analysts that Iran is not, after all, building a nuclear weapon dropped on Washington like a weapon of mass destruction this week.

News coverage has been light relative to the magnitude of the issue, and has focused largely on perceived damage to the Bush administration's credibility and questions about whether the President was aware of the substance of the report even as he warned that Iran posed an imminent nuclear threat.

But analysts and government insiders suggest that the media has been slow to pursue a number of important facets of the story.

Uri Bolgakov, an analyst with Jane's Defense Weekly, expressed disappointment that the media has failed to uncover more of the technical backstory and covert operational detail.

"I would expect," said Bolgakov, "that a case like this would involve numerous curvaceous Persian femmes fatale, scenes of high-stakes baccarat play, and the massive explosion of a secret underground Uranium enrichment facility, heralded by a disembodied voice counting down the seconds to the final conflagration over a loudspeaker. At least, that's how it usually happens. Certainly we want to know what team of geniuses labored over satellite photos and sensor readings to piece together the puzzle? What tortured, epic subterranean political artery did the news follow to escape the inky maze of bureaucratic purgatory and burst into the bright light of day on CNN?"

"God," concluded Mr. Bolgakov, "Persian women are so hot."

Most news outlets did not respond to our inquiries regarding the lack of coverage Bolgakov bemoaned. However, Jack Weis, Managing Editor for International News at MSNBC, was dismissive.

"Boring," said Mr. Weis. "Is Brad Pitt involved? Does it have tits? Call me back when it has tits."

It seems clear that lacking celebrities, frontal nudity, or televised auditions by amateur vocalists dreaming of stardom, mainstream media outlets will be disinclined to pursue the backstory behind the NIE. But some remain bullish on the potential for the NIE issue to provide a compelling narrative.

"A more fruitful vein of inquiry," says New York times film critic A.O. Scott, "if we are to derive from this issue the entertainment so foundational to our national security and way of life, follows the thread of personal betrayal, revenge, and internecine power play within the Bush administration that is revealed by the unexpected release of this NIE. Here at least is the stuff of drama. Here are Stephen Hadley and the President at the dais magnifying their shame by refusing to acknowledge their error. There is Dick Cheney raging in his office, his torrent of profanity accompanied by an escorting rain of froth and spittle. And there, in the background, are the veiled Greek chorus of neoconservative bootlickers wailing in dismay."

"And just in time for Christmas. Thank you, Mr. President!"

But there are whispers among Washington insiders about a facet of this story that has been ignored. One that has, they say, dire implications for the future of the current administration and the country.

No one from the administration agreed to speak on the record. But one insider in a position to know offered this perspective: "All observers of the Bush White House understand that the release of this report represents a profound failure of the hitherto flawlessly coordinated messaging of agencies managed by the executive branch. I'm referring to agencies like the Department of Defense, the Justice Department, the courts, both houses of Congress, Fox News, Chuck Norris—they know who they are. The plan to demonize and then attack Iran has been a done deal for about three years. Word from the OVP is that Cheney already had plans to have himself packed in a coffin filled with the soil of his native Wyoming and shipped to the soon-to-be newest American military base in the center of Tehran, there to celebrate his 1,451st birthday. And then McConnell comes along and just shoves this NIE up Cheney's ass. Unbelievable."

The NIE's release has been widely interpreted as the result of a rift between hawkish elements of the administration on one side, and those favoring diplomacy on the other. According to sources, the reason the White House has done so little to dispel such speculation stems from a fear that any public discussion of the real cause would sow panic among policy makers and business leaders alike.

"At the heart of the matter, what we are dealing with is a personnel problem," said the anonymous administration official. "When W. brought in McConnel as DNI and Gates to head DoD, people assumed it was in reaction to pressure for more experienced and balanced leadership. But that was never a factor. The real truth is incredibly sobering, and it ought to scare the pee out of every American that wants to see the government function in a coordinated way. The fact is, we just ran out of crazy people to hire."

"And now look. What a clusterfuck."

Another high level member of the administration, also speaking off the record, confirmed these points. "Do you think people like Ashcroft, Hadley and Rumsfeld grow on trees? These are unique talents we're talking about. Finding people who are that bat-shit, balls-out, head-banging insane but who also are capable of maintaining the appearance that they are effectively managing a mammoth federal agency with a budget in the billions of dollars... It's no picnic."

"And they have to be able to tie a tie. If you know anyone like that, have them contact me."

As word of the administration's dilemma circulated among the Republican Presidential hopefuls, a contentious debate erupted.

Tom Tancredo said he found the news "of great concern," and expressed a willingness to revisit his hardline position against immigration from Mexico. "If there is one thing all those Mexicans have in spades, it's a whole lot of loco. Especially after they get some Don Julio in the tank."

"I think it's just ridiculous to suggest that America doesn't have the talent we need for these roles," countered Rudy Giuliani. "This is the greatest country in the world, and in my administration all executive departments will be managed by people who are more than unhinged enough to keep the mullahs guessing."

Mike Huckabee, armed with the labor department statistics detailing the shortage of functional psychopaths in the workforce, accused Giuliani of playing loose with the facts. But Giuliani held firm, saying that, at the least, he would find job candidates that "go in and out. Then we'll tweak their medication to minimize periods of lucidity."

"The talent pool for these roles is indeed paper thin," says Rob Gonuff, Director of Insta-Temps, Inc. Mr. Gonuff's company specializes in providing unbalanced, incompetent and borderline-retarded staff on an hourly or contract basis, and has been a key staffing resource for Mr. Bush since he was Governor of Texas. "[Giuliani's] right that America is producing more and better crazy people than ever before. But crazy how? To what degree? You can't just take any schizoid psychotic off the street and make them a Director of the NSA. All they'll do is horde newspaper and soil the furniture. What you need is a megalomaniac with a persecution complex and a set of highly specific destructive impulses. Ideally one with a doctorate in Public Administration from Harvard."

Gonuff looked wistfully out his office window. "Man," he mused, "could I place a few of those..."

Seeking an objective opinion, the White House Office of Management and Budget last year retained consultant McKinsey and Co. to help them identify optimal sources of candidates. The results were intriguing.

"What we found," says McKinsey analyst Jeff Rollins, "was that, based on criteria provided by the administration, the ideal candidate would likely have a religious background, sociopathic tendencies, a messianic streak, and a past littered with traumatic, violent experiences. Basically, we're talking Islamic fundamentalists. The Christian ones are just too soft."

"We assumed the OMB would reject our conclusions outright, but they debated internally for about seven weeks before officially declining," continued Rollins, pausing to allow the ominous implications of his statement to sink in. "I'd say the desperation is palpable."

The government's challenge is a common one, says Gonuff, and in the end, they will have to be willing to broaden their search. "There will never be enough nutjobs to fill every opening available in this administration. At a certain point, they have to get real and fall back on what the market can offer: imbeciles, do-nothings, crackpots and ding-a-lings. America's universities are stamping these people out like paper clips. I've got about four hundred sitting home waiting for the phone to ring—not that they'll know to pick up the receiver when it does. I can have one behind a desk at the State Department tomorrow morning. Today, in a pinch."

"Insta-Temps has shown what we can do in past. Where do you think Gonzo came from? George Tenet? Michael Brown? Michael Chertoff? Lurita Doan? Douglas Feith? When you can't find coo-coo, you've got to be ready to fall back on dim."

"You know who understood that lesson? The National Republican Presidential Search Committee, that's who. Back when they hired us in 1999."

You're Already Gay, Why Ruin it by Getting Married?

I love gayness. I also love marriage. However, to combine them would ruin both.

Let me back up off my initial statement a little bit. I nearly love gayness. Life is dull, so I am thankful for people that lisp and swish and whose mysterious and often ambiguous gender serves as fodder for a guessing game to pass the time at airports. Yes, I know many gay people project no telltale mannerisms. I know there are gay men that read, or pretend to read, the sports section. I know there are gay women who shave their armpits. I do not love these gay people. They make not the smallest effort to entertain me, and I, in return, find them as tiresome as normal people.

I used to love gay people more than I do now. The turning point came on a night when, to demonstrate my liberality, I attended a "gay" party. I chuckled when informed that I possessed a bubble butt. I laughed when someone asked if they could use my behind for a table. But when instructed to "get [my] ass in that cake, bitch!", I demurred. Thus did my love affair with gayness revert to more prosaic dimensions. For I knew that one drunk and rude homosexual spoke for all gay people everywhere.

I am married, therefore, like all married people, I love marriage. This is true. Ask any married person and they will confirm this, for they know there is no upside to saying otherwise. If they hesitate, there is a good chance that they will not be married for much longer.

Frankly, I'm not sure why the gay people are so eager to get their hands on the institution of marriage. They seem to have a pretty sweet set up without it--the men in particular. Possessed of all the most desirable of female qualities such as a strong fashion sense, an acute emotional intelligence and a highly developed appreciation for musical theater, they retain only one purely male trait: the desire to have sex at every waking moment. And since both partners have insatiable sexual appetites, fully 100% of the disagreements that would originate with the male in a heterosexual relationship never materialize. Bonus: sex with men outside the relationship is encouraged!

This is true of all gay male relationships.

I find it a bit harder to make a similar case that the typical lesbian relationship attains some ideal. Lesbians--and I mean ALL lesbians--display a set of male traits that I know from personal experience to be overrated. What's so great about being mechanically inclined if people are constantly roping you into fixing things? And while being emotionally inaccessible seems to have advantages--such as providing ample security for my fragile ego without lessening the warmth that my wife and children feel for me--it's hard to be sure when they speak to me so seldom. Beyond such male characteristics, lesbianism seems to be denoted by an over-emphasis on cuddling, ambivalence toward housekeeping, and an above average predilection for cats... I think. But I admit, I don't really know because I am confused by lesbians. They show so little enthusiasm for making themselves attractive to me.

But quibbling aside, it is clear that the gay couples are happy together. Why would they want to throw it all away by getting married? Don't they know not to mess with a winning streak? But if you are determined to leap from the cliff of swingledom against all better judgment, I will arm you with a few frayed scraps of wisdom, though they will provide only cold comfort as you plummet to your doom.

First off, what kind of marriage are you looking for? God marriage, or just the kind that begins with tax breaks and ends with alimony? If the former, I'm afraid I must disappoint. Because God--and by that I mean the REAL God, the one who busily smites and burns people, who drowns them or turns them to salt, and who won't love you if your foreskin is intact--that God, I'm sorry to say, finds what you do disgusting. He will give you nothing and you will like it.

His disdain is reflected in the policies of real churches, where the congregants have a sound and well-ingrained fear of being smitten, burned, drowned, solidified or in other manners fatally reproved. In such venues you can hardly expect to be welcomed, for the humble in the pews know that the Lord's avenging fire does not spare those in close proximity to its intended target. Thus the only denominations that will provide the service you seek are a small handful that have departed from His true path, though they still maintain the trappings of piety. Of these, only the United Church of Christ has proven willing to commit metaphysical suicide by offering you the genuine sacrament. There are other denominations ostensibly friendly to your absurd demands--notably the Unitarians, who, like you, will do anything, and every episcopalian parish between Vermont and Maryland. These churches are so overrun by queers that the Eucharist procession is indistinguishable from a Castro Pride Day parade. Yet they will only offer you what they cagily term a "covenanted relationship," which is like the faux-personal response you get when you write a fawning letter to Brad Pitt, only the fake signature is God's and are you happy now? then put your money on the plate.

For the devout sheep that graze in the rest of our nation's houses of worship, it pains me to say that you ask too much if you wish them to extend their Christian mercies so far as to willingly accompany you as you swish towards certain damnation. You cannot hope they will share in your joy as you solemnly exchange matching cock rings. And you certainly cannot expect that they will join you, figuratively and literally, in the orgiastic carnal celebration that will follow. If daily news reports are to be believed, these are all privileges reserved for their ministers and prelates alone.

And really, aren't you being unfair? After all, churches are merely Sunday breakfast clubs for the superstitious, each constructed around its own peculiar fetishes. Examples of utterly random notions as the basis for eternal salvation abound. Some believe that any ancestors you don't know about are in hell, until you find out about them, at which time they get paroled. Others believe that prayer is the only acceptable treatment for gangrene. And of course others--well, pretty much all of them--believe that boy-on-boy or girl-on-girl action is a deal breaker. They can't change their minds without ceasing to be the holy and ludicrous thing they are. And if you have given up work and sleep and dedicated your life to changing your church's creed so that you can walk down the aisle, I must break this unpleasant news: you're even more screwed up then they are.

Which brings me to the question of civil unions. Many homosexuals have come to terms with the fact that God will never love them, and that they will soon be subjected to infinite suffering for eternity. In reaction, they are looking to get a piece of the pie so big and delicious in this lifetime that it will make up for what is to come after.

So, should gay couples have access to the same civil rights and privileges as heterosexual couples? Should they get the same tax breaks? The same rights of inheritance? The same rights of hospital attendance in the event that one partner is gravely ill? Thankfully, unlike the thorny issue of matrimony in God's sight, the answer to this question is plain.

Absolutely not.

Look, you, my gay friend, have made the decision--yes, the decision--to be different. You certainly have never hesitated to accept all the perks that came in tow. The special recognition in high school. The free time that you enjoy while the rest of us attend to the parents and siblings that do not refuse to speak to us. The exalted sense you get from being in such an exclusive club. That you would now insist on also reaping the benefits reserved as recompense for those of us that labor under the dull yoke of normalcy seems to me distastefully opportunistic. There is a limited amount of money available to be distributed as tax breaks. More for you means less for me, and I'm not prepared to make that sacrifice. At least not unless you are willing to share some of the color and excitement of your lifestyle with me.

Did I mention I have a bubble butt?

Our Cowardice-Based Foreign Policy

That hissing sound you hear is the air leaking out of America's hegemonic balloon. Someday you will tell your great grandchildren what it was like to be a citizen of the most powerful country on earth. They will not believe you. They also may not understand you, since they will have been raised to speak only Mandarin.

That our present level of dominance is unsustainable we can say with Newtonian certainty. Much as water will find its own level, so will the balance of power between nations swing back to a mean after a period of uneven distribution. Of the factors that have made us the most powerful country on earth, the only one that was uniquely American was the political and economic system that generated wealth like kudzu, and that secret recipe has now become a staple of kitchens in China, Indonesia, and even the once-calcified culinary institutions of Europe. Soon all the world will be asphyxiating beneath the matted vines of a luxury once reserved for us alone.

The party, in other words, is over. If we have not noticed the caterer putting the chairs on the tables, it is because we are too drunk to rise up off the couch. The only open question now is whether we will accede gracefully and play the role of partner in the order of nations, or will we act the megalomaniacal Caesar until the bitter end and lash out indiscriminately at all who come within range of our mindless rage, raving like an addict in withdrawal, grain alcohol in one hand, matches in the other, as we make the planet our funeral pyre.

Hmmm, I wonder...

I'll confess: it's a rhetorical question. The early results are in and the answer is evident in the way our military outlays continue to expand relative to the rest of the world, even though we already spend more than the next 15 most martial-minded nations combined. It is evident in the proliferation of American service uniforms in all four corners of the globe even as American diplomats become an endangered species. And it is evident in our look of disgust as we brush away the filthy hands of nations clutching at our sleeves, hoping for a moment's audience to say, please, sorry to disturb you, but you're kneeling on my throat.

It wasn't always this way. If we have become the world's bully, it is not because we haven't had positive experiences with soft power. In the years after WWII, we took the rest of the world on a joyride of economic and cultural globalization that brought great riches and a significant degree of freedom to swathes of the planet previously unaccustomed to such pleasures. We were then, as now, armed to the teeth and forever demonstrating our good will by shooting people. But our adventures in Vietnam and Korea, the ass-kickings we administered via US-supplied proxies in Latin America and the middle east, and most significantly, the cold war's one-hydrogen-bomb-for-every-household plan were less responsible for our present hegemonic precedence than our far-more-benign role as the world's preeminent loan shark and pusher of drugs like Baywatch, Hotpockets, cigarettes, and warehouse-sized bathrooms. In fact the only drugs we kept just for ourselves were the actual drugs. We also retained dibs on all the Chips Ahoy! cookies, which, because of the drugs, we will definitely want later tonight.

But now, presented with the opportunity to boldly lead or brashly dominate, we've put on our brass knuckles. This approach achieves a trifecta: it is simultaneously futile, shameful and stupid. But it is not surprising, for all Americans are attuned to a whispering voice that only we can hear, a voice that ever contests the better angels of our nature, calling us something worse than murderer, worse than liar, worse than cheater...

Calling us pussy.

How is it that this notion, that we are "soft," is an arrow privileged to bypass all our critical faculties and strike a fatal blow to our self image, even while we can blithely equivocate when charged with seemingly far worse trespasses? The answer is found in a handful of formative historical and cultural factors that make multilateralism and cooperation an unnatural act for us. These demons have been dozing uneasily in our national psyche for decades now, but circumstances are conspiring to fully rouse them. They have not had their coffee yet, and they are in a foul mood.

The first of these demons is the myth that there are only two approaches to conflict resolution: Thunder Dome deathmatch or appeasement, as embodied by the rather drab figure of Neville Chamberlain. Chamberlain, as you probably know, was singlehandedly responsible for giving the word appeasement a pejorative connotation when he let Hitler know that Britain would look the other way if Germany elected to get jiggy with Czechoslovakia. Five years and millions and millions of dead people later, it looked like the wrong call. Fair enough. Chamberlain's misjudgement certainly deserves to be ranked as one of history's more piquant learning moments. But the second world war was the birth agony from which sprung our modern international order, and like any creation story, it exerts an outsize influence on our perspective of contemporary events. So it is that ever after we have been inclined to see diplomacy of any kind as a thinly disguised desire to french kiss Adolf Hitler.

Mirror image to the myth of appeasement--and likewise uncritically granted a significance unsupported by the facts--is the myth that Ronald Reagan toppled the Soviet Union with only the withering power of his steely gaze and several hundred billion dollars of America's lunch money spent on stealth bombers. It is only one of several miracles attributed to the gipper which led to his recent canonization. The others were turning America's frown upside down (1981-1983), and when he addressed the Liberian ambassador by name without prompting in 1987, despite suffering from a well-advanced case of Alzheimer's. But the Soviet Union had been leaking at the seams for 50 years by the time Reagan arrived on the scene, assisted towards an early grave by the prudent pressures of every administration after Roosevelt. Pinching a comatose invalid's respirator tube is something less than slaying a raging dragon.

We are further discouraged from cooperative action by a deep seated belief in the goodness of competition in all matters. If we were to assist other peoples and nations who have so plainly failed to develop sewage systems and useless trinket based economies on their own, what critical lessons about not living in your own filth and coveting expensive, pointless toys would thereby go unlearned? And there is an ironic analog to facets of Darwinian theory involved here as well. For though the more pious among us would not be descended from apes, they are nonetheless at ease with the idea of survival of the fittest, mapping neatly as it does onto the unassailable tenets of free enterprise and the market economy. Strong animals devour the weak, they note, it is nature's plan. Which may be true. But as America transforms from a shining beacon into a bristling fortress, they might pause to consider how seldom successful animals devour those of their own species. Genetically distinct for no more than 100,000 years, humanity is still in a pre-release trial phase, by nature's standards. It's not to late for her to cancel the project altogether.

So let us review. Appeasement is bad. Cooperation with those you should be competing with is appeasement. And who should you be competing with?

Everyone, of course.

In better times, these self-serving urges coexist with the more compassionate and good-hearted aspirations of our citizenry and, by electoral extension, our government. But these are not better times, for now we are in great fear. We are afraid of terrorists. We are afraid of global warming. We are afraid we'll get sick with no health insurance. We are afraid of immigrants. We are afraid of our credit card debt. We are afraid of gas prices. And while we don't much care if the rest of the world hates us, we are deathly afraid that they will laugh at us. France most of all.

Yet our crisis presents a tremendous opportunity. There is ample historical evidence that great leaders can harness the energy latent in our anxiety and channel it in positive directions, revolutionizing our sense of ourselves and our role in the world. Unfortunately, none of that evidence is to be found in the last eight years, and none of those leaders are named Bush. So we strut brashly back and forth on the world stage, our shirt open to the navel, spewing profanity and reeking of booze as we inquire who at the bar--if any have not yet eaten--would like a knuckle sandwich? But let us pick two examples at random from the tome of reasons that we are idiots, and consider them in order of ascending degree of irony.

First, every step we are taking to insure our continued dominance is serving only to hasten our downfall. The economics of our strategy are disastrous. Soldiers cost a lot more than diplomats, and having them running around the middle east shooting people is making the locals nervous. That, in turn, drives up the price of oil, which drains what little cash we have and sends it right to those nice men with the framed picture of Osama Bin Laden on their wall. And when the President implores us to continue spending this Christmas, next Christmas, and every day in between, that only increases our consumer debt, already at Alice-in-Wonderland levels. All our guns aren't going to be much use when we can't afford any bullets.

Another facet of our "strength" is manifested in a disdain for multilateralism. Far from widening the power gap between us and other nations, our go-it-alone mentality is only accelerating the creation of new international combinations that don't look to the U.S. as a center of gravity, if they even include as at all. The economy of the EU may soon rival ours in size. Much of the world is pursuing climate action without American participation. If we thought to discipline the world by threatening to uninvite them to our party, we're finding instead that we've simply given them the push they needed to learn how to throw a party of their own. And in their minds, the best thing about their party is that a certain colossal asshole will not be in attendance.


There is a positive feedback loop that occurs here (note--"positive" in this instance is not the same as "good"). As each ill-conceived attempt to control the world blows up in our face, our anxiety level ramps up, eliciting ever more irrational and heavy handed reactions on our part. In short, it is suicidal, and in the end we will press our face into a pile of cocaine, shout "Say hello to my little friend!" and be cut in two by a shotgun blast from behind. Be sure to bring popcorn.

But the greatest irony about our policy of strength is that it is, like most indications of bravado, actually cowardice. We are what we most fear and despise--utter pussies. Confronted with the prospect of change, we cannot summon the courage to manage the process so as to mitigate the downside and conduct ourselves with the humanity and honor which are the only things of value in this life. Small wonder. The last generation to experience national hardship in this country is at this moment waiting for a nurse's aid to roll them over and change their diapers. The rest of us equate our second cars and second homes with vital organs of our body; we could no more do without our wine chiller than our pancreas.

But rather than trying to horde our power, or beat other nations over the head with it, what if we actually invested it? What if we supported genuine freedom and democracy in Pakistan? In the short run we would lose some leverage against Islamic extremism there, and yes, some unreliable characters would get their fingers on the nuclear button. But Musharraf has delivered little of value to us, and arguably our support for him only enhances the Taliban's power base in that country. In the long run, a significant change of course in our policy there would take the wind out of the fundamentalists' sails.

And what if we engaged with Iran and at least kept them talking until their geriatric leadership croaks? The young people that make up a huge proportion of their population have western predilections, and will soon take over the country and be a friend to us. Unless we do something stupid. Like what we're thinking of doing now.

What if we looked for a multilateral solution in Iraq? What if we made a genuine effort to address the question of Israel and the Palestinians? What if we actually packed up our forces in the middle east and left? These thoughts are Dick Cheney's nightmares--which is reason enough to give them serious consideration--but such tactics would have universally positive effects. The threat of terrorism would wane considerably. We would save enough money to give health care to every American and still be able to take the whole country out for ice cream.

Change is coming, whatever we do. Why not display a little less strength. And a lot more courage.