Jew Eat Yet?

Got Gottliebs? Reflections of a Blogging Stalker

I’m back at 35,000 feet on my way home from another quick trip to Chicago. I came here for a series of weekend events that included the Bar Mitzvah of the son of one of my earliest blogging pals, David Gottlieb of True Ancestor. It was also my chance to meet the other bloggers in David’s family who gathered in Chicago for this joyous occasion, including Annie Gottlieb of AmbivaBlog, a site I enjoy reading every day even though I often get into sparring matches with Annie’s conservative readers. AmbivaBlog is one of the few places where folks on the left and the right can talk to each other with curiosity and at least occasional semblances of respect. Annie is a skilled referee, never succumbing to the hysterical hyperbole that often grips her readers on both sides (myself very much included). 

As the oldest of the six Gottlieb siblings, Annie was a card-carrying member of the 1960s counterculture. She wrote a fascinating history of that time called “Do You Believe in Magic? Bringing the Sixties Back Home” (a book she now tends to disavow), and has tiptoed further to the right than anyone else in her staunchly liberal family, especially brother Alan who often gets into superheated exchanges with Annie’s conservative “regulars.” In addition to her prolific writing on AmbivaBlog, Annie writes a blog for New York's Natural History Museum that is a great read. Her husband Jacques has his own riveting story. He was a prisoner at one of Stalin’s slave-labor camps as a teenager and somehow survived an insanely severe Russian winter during his long escape to freedom. Oh, and then he became a part-time actor and co-starred in movies with the likes of Barbra Streisand, Dan Aykroyd, and Robin Williams. Although I’ve been communicating with Annie since January 2005, it was a delight to finallly meet her in the flesh this past weekend. She truly felt like a long-lost sister.

By now I’ve met David a bunch of times, both in Chicago and Los Angeles, and I believe I’ve already mentioned  the weird coincidences that connect us, starting with the fact that we were both born at Michael Reese Hospital in Chicago in the fall of 1959. I’m a few weeks older but had to stay in the hospital for over a month so I’m convinced there were a few days when our bassinets were next to each other in the nursery of the south side hospital. Maybe we were accidentally switched before we left Michael Reese, thus creating the bond that I discovered to his family so many years later?  Fat chance, I always joke, since the Gottliebs are WAY smarter than anyone in my gene pool. (I can’t tell you how much my actual family members LOVE this joke!) I guess I’ve always had a bit of an inferiority complex about those mysterious Hyde Park Jews. They always seemed to be elite members of the Intelligentsia compared to us hunched-over shtetl Jews who were hawking shmattes on Maxwell Street.

David was not religious at all growing up. He lived in Mexico for part of his childhood, moved into the same Hyde Park building as Saul Bellow, went to school with Prince Albert of Monaco, was an actor in New York, and now works as an affordable housing developer. As an adult, David returned to the fold with gusto (you should have heard his davening at his son’s Bar Mitzvah), and recently started an intense graduate program at the University of Chicago Divinity School where he’s currently studying the intricacies of Ancient Hebrew. His renewed relationship with Judaism began with a search outside of the faith, a spiritual journey that produced the fascinating book, “Letters to a Buddhist Jew” which David co-wrote with Talmudic scholar Rabbi Akiva Tatz.

One of the most unexpected connections between our two families was when my sister sent my nephew Spencer to a summer camp in Wisconsin last year after we discovered that it was the same place my mother attended in the 1940s. And who randomly became Spencer’s best bud at the camp, which he returned to this summer? None other than David’s son Gabe, the Bar Mitzvah boy. We had no idea a Gottlieb even went to this camp. What are the freaking chances of that?

At one point back in 2005 I think I was reading six or seven blogs written by Gottliebs all over the country. Several of those blogs are now defunct, but new ones are popping up all the time such as two by David and Annie's niece Sara—a funny yet informative blog evaluating, of all things, public bathrooms in southern California, and an irreverent, sexy blog “for the ladies” called Shady Sadie. There’s no end to what those Gottliebs will write about. The family’s patriarch, Harry Gottlieb, now 90, doesn’t write in his blog very often, but what he writes is “cherce!” Now living in Florida, Harry and Jean Gottlieb have been married a whopping 66 years. Jean has a PhD in English (there are enough advanced degrees in this family to start a small college—Gottlieb U.?) and comments often on her kids’ blogs. Harry graduated college in 1939, served as Adjutant to the 583rd Signal Aircraft Warning Battalion during World War II, but says he is extremely opposed to old people sending young people to war. Mr. Gottlieb, like David and Gabe, is obsessed with baseball and says he still dreams of being the third baseman for the Chicago White Sox (but by now the pitcher would have to relay his throw to first base).

Here’s an excerpt of what David wrote about the weekend festivities on his blog:

Every life-cycle event is a birth canal exiting the womb of a certain moment in your life. You are pushed into it and contracted through it by forces that, having nurtured you into existence, have realized for you that your removal is the imminent phase of your creation. You are ready, scatologically speaking, to be eliminated.

So maybe birth isn’t the right metaphor.

This past weekend, a few hundred people poured into our synagogue and watched and listened to this rite of passage called the bar/bat mitzvah. My son Gabe and his first cousin Sarah, two months older than him, went through it side by side, and had parties side by side today, under a humid but cloudless late-summer sky, on the grounds of a local day camp.

Nothing struck me so much as how, in the days prior to the event, time seemed to enter a kind of rip current, and the event had a life force and momentum of its own. Gabe was, as usual, self-possessed and laconic, executing his duties with the slight smirk of adolescence, brightening noticeably when gifts were proffered.

All that remain of the weekend are fragments—impressions—faces that kept coming at me and moments that flashed and receded. No conversation went uninterrupted and my face hurt from smiling by the end of it all. The event, loaded with meaning, was deprived of all meaning by the urgency of last-minute preparations, and then had meaning restored to it by all the love that surrounded us. Notable fragments: getting to lead the Shacharit portion of the Sabbath service, and the way everything faded away but the text I was chanting; watching Gabe read an ancient text with agility and concentration and some reverence; the look on his face when he was done: liberation

An especially weird world when your son goes through a kind of initiation right before you, and you feel this sad distance beginning to open in your life; this quiet space opening and moving between you and the child. The rite that was his is yours, too: look, it’s saying: you’re done with the delusion that you can mold his character. He’s his own person now, officially as well as plainly. I’m officially a little more alone, and a little more free, and soaringly happy, with a drop of sadness at the heart of me for the distances that are opening.

And Annie’s ruminations on the same event:

Most of all, bar and bat mitzvahs are about the turning of the wheel of generations—certain moments on that wheel are marked so that you notice the motion that is raising others toward their heights as it carries you under (or vice versa, if you’re young and it’s your time). Not only the next but the next next generation of our family was present: our dad, the Director of Sunsets, is 90 and Matt and Julie’s baby is already visible like the first edge of sunrise under her shirt. As Gabe formally took on the responsibilities of a man while still mostly interested in playing games nonstop, the next generation, “our kids,” officially ceased being kids. Most of them are deep into young adulthood; it’s their time and their world.

As we crammed ourselves ill-fittingly into the glass slipper of conservative Judaism, I was proud of our scandalous diversity, on display in this next generation who come in a post-tribal assortment of sizes, shapes, and shades, braiding many of the DNA trees as if they weren't nearly as adulterated yet. 

My relationship to all this partakes of both delight and melancholy, because I don’t directly have a dog in that fight, the next generation—a fate I never imagined for myself. It makes me feel strangely apart and detached from that wheel, going down loosely without pulling anyone up, like a kite catching the sun when I’m already in shadow.

Can you see why I’ve become this family’s official stalker? I keep waiting to be banned from Annie’s website for my leftist ravings, or to have David issue a restraining order, but so far they’ve been quite welcoming. Now I just need to get my own family members to start blogging. Come on, guys! Don’t let those smarty-farty Hyde Park Gottliebs show us up!

Republicans and Gays: WTF?

With everything that’s going on in the world and in the state of California, I’m frankly disgusted by the millions of dollars being spent to try to turn back the clock on gay marriage in our state. If passed, Proposition 8 would override the recent Supreme Court decision and amend the California Constitution with the words: only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California. It remains to be seen whether this amendment would be retroactive, invalidating the thousands of weddings that have taken place among same-sex couples since last June. The campaign for Proposition 8 is a mean-spirited attack on the very people in the gay community you’d think conservatives would find the least objectionable. But, as I quoted from Roy Zimmerman’s excellent song in the post I wrote on the day gay marriages became legal:

Every time we think about same-sex marriage, it makes us sick to our guts. I mean, two people who want to commit to a stable, monogamous, lifelong relationship—what are they, nuts?

I’ve been to several such weddings since June, including our beloved rabbi’s, and I would challenge any of the supporters of Proposition 8 to attend these beautiful, heartwarming events and continue to spew their crazy bullshit.

That’s what gets me the most—the attempts by the Proposition 8 people to instill fear and hysteria among their supporters using misinformation and propaganda techniques. The website set up by the “Yes on 8” supporters is called “Restoring Marriage and Protecting California Children.” If they were just focused on their belief that marriage should only be between men and women, I could at least understand their point of view. But, knowing that this is no longer enough to whip up a frenzy of fear, these folks have added a new element: the completely bogus charge that public school teachers will now be forced by law to teach about all aspects of gay marriage, starting in Kindergarten. They make it sound like there will be armed guards at the doors of the public school classrooms making sure teachers go into explicit detail about different gay sex positions. Maybe they’ll have to install hooks on the ceilings of preschools so they can demonstrate the use of slings and then be forced to demonstrate the proper use of condoms on live models. The scare tactics are the same ones used in the recent ad the McCain campaign put out about Barack Obama’s support of a perfectly innocuous piece of legislation regarding developmentally appropriate sex education instruction. McCain’s ad twisted the words of that bill, leaving out phrases that didn’t suit their needs, and made it sound like Obama’s support of “comprehensive sex education” would involve teaching five-year-olds how to use dildos or giving them extra credit homework in bestiality. It was one of the most repulsive political ads I’ve ever seen in its blatant, desperate manipulations designed to frighten the masses.

I’ve been listening to people debating the merits of Proposition 8 on the radio and have been shocked at how inarticulate they tend to be. One discussion I listened to last week was full of claims by a Prop 8 fearmonger about what’s in the California Education Code. The conservative host kept having to interrupt his guest’s diatribe with comments such as “No, that’s not accurate, I have the wording right here and what you're saying simply isn't true.” But even in the face of black-and-white evidence refuting her lies, this woman wouldn’t budge, and she came close to implying that the Republican host was part of some left-wing conspiracy.

The language on the official “Yes on 8” website is poorly written and full of attempts to dredge up old fears. You know—the one about how if we let two men or two women get married, it’s going to lead to all sorts of unholy alliances: “The Court decision has opened the door to any kind of ‘marriage.’ This undermines the value of marriage altogether at a time when we should be restoring marriage, not undermining it.” Yawn. Is there anyone, even among ultra-conservatives, who truly believes that the decision to allow gay people to get married in California is going to lead to other people trying to marry young children, farm animals, or kitchen appliances? That’s SO 2004, I want to say to the misguided writers of this tired propaganda.

Do you want to hear a typical argument of a Prop 8 supporter? Here’s a verbatim excerpt from one of the blogs promoting the initiative.

Imagine the absurd conversations that would happen soon if homosexual marriage gained ground and became accepted in society. Upon seeing the wedding ring on the finger of someone you just met, you would have to ask the person: “Are you married to a man or a woman?” If that’s a logical question, then why not ask: “Are you a man or a woman?” Because, after all, don’t homosexual men say they’re a woman in a man’s body (and vice versa)? It would be like living in Alice In Wonderland. Once we depart from God’s definitions, things get strange very quickly. The homosexual imposters who think they are now married (such as my next door neighbors—I’m not joking—my lesbian next door neighbors had their “wedding” last month and their “honeymoon” in Aruba) are in reality trying for abolition of God’s law throughout the land. 

To accept this and not to fight it is to deny the faith! Why do I say this? Because, a few tyrannical judges in the judicial branch of the State have decided to redefine marriage. Clearly, they have exalted themselves as lords above God. Accepting this would require us to accept the State as god and deny the Lordship of Christ. That puts Christians back where they were in Caesar’s day, when Caesar exalted himself as god. In the Great Commision, Jesus taught us to teach all peoples to obey all of His commandments. Not just the politically correct commandments. How can we let go of God-ordained marriage without a fight to the death????

Hold it…I’m still basking in “after all, don’t homosexual men say they’re a woman in a man’s body?” How can we possibly counter such ignorance among otherwise educated people? I used to think if such people simply met gays or lesbians who were just trying to love each other and live their lives in peace, they would change their tune, but this woman clearly was not affected by her lesbian neighbors. Maybe those women were on the butch side and therefore clearly “men in women’s bodies.” My God.

I’m relieved to see that support for Proposition 8 is slipping in California. In the most recent poll, 55 percent of voters said they would say no to the proposed amendment. I only wish that were 85 percent. And yet, the money is pouring in. The list of supporters of Proposition 8 includes most state Republican politicians (with the large exception of Governor Schwarzenegger), hate-spewing organizations like Focus on the Family, movie star Mel Gibson (are you surprised?), and John McCain and Sarah Palin.

In light of this and so many other factors, I was surprised to see the enthusiastic endorsement of the McCain-Palin ticket by the Log Cabin Republicans, the gay and lesbian GOP organization that’s been around since the late 1970s. On the one hand, I totally understand why they don’t want to be told by the PC police in their community which party they should support. Same goes for African-Americans, Jews, and other groups who have typically voted one way for much of their history. I admire anyone who risks ridicule, condescension, and persecution in their own ranks in order to follow their conscience. So part of me says, “You go, Log Cabin Replicans!” But another part of me wants to say to them,  “Are you freaking NUTS?”

Would YOU support a party that didn’t want anything to do with you? One that fought vigorously to have your hard-won rights and protections taken away? A party that included MANY elected officials who actively spread vicious lies and slander about you? A party that, at best, just wished you’d disappear quietly into the woodwork?

But no, the Log Cabin folks would say, they are simply people who believe in Republican values. As the Log Cabin website makes clear:

The mission of the Log Cabin Republicans is to work within the Republican Party to advocate equal rights for all Americans, including gays and lesbians. Log Cabin’s mission derives from our firm belief in the principles of limited government, individual liberty, individual responsibility, free markets, and a strong national defense. We emphasize that these principles and the moral values on which they stand are consistent with the pursuit of equal treatment under the law for gay and lesbian Americans.

How’s that been working for you, guys? Not only the support you’ve been getting from Republican officials, but their adherence to those values that are so important to you: limited government, individual liberty and responsibility, and so on. Is that how you’d describe the focus of the Bush administration during the past eight years? You say you're a fiscal conservative? Great, then why the hell would you consider sending another Republican administration to the White House? George W. Bush is about as fiscally conservative as a crack addict on a bender.

In their reasons given for supporting McCain, the Log Cabin Republicans cite the senator’s opposition to a federal amendment regarding the definition of marriage. They then ignore McCain’s support of Proposition 8 and his desire for individual states to write discrimination into their constitutions.

Another site set up by a Gay Republican group contains no mention of Proposition 8 and makes the case that gay rights are inextricably linked to George Bush’s so-called War on Terror. Just to prove I’m being fair to all sides, let me show how gay Republicans can be just as ignorant as homophobic Republicans. Here’s an excerpt from that website:

The spread of gay rights depends on the survival of freedom in the United States. And that freedom is threatened today by terrorism, especially nuclear terrorism. And it has become clear since September 11, 2001 that the Republican party, despite its many serious flaws, is the only party willing to defend America. 

Under House Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, that has not been the position of the Democratic party. These two ultra-left liberals have seized every opportunity to blame America, blame the troops, blame the President, comfort the terrorists, tie the hands of our intelligence agencies, and legislate defeat—even today, when the surge has clearly worked!

Americans must come together. We must stop blaming America. We must drill for our own oil, and stop ceding our freedoms to the government.

Okay, I realize that I've been bemoaning the polarization that exists between Democrats and Republicans in this country and this post certainly does nothing to address that problem. Sorry. If only I could be as evolved as Brad Pitt and put my money where my mouth is. Last week, the actor donated $100,000 to help fight Proposition 8. “Because no one has the right to deny another their life, even though they disagree with it, because everyone has the right to live the life they so desire if it doesn’t harm another and because discrimination has no place in America, my vote will be for equality and against Proposition 8.” 

White Privilege?

I’ve been increasingly uncomfortable with the hysterical anti-Sarah Palin emails I’ve been getting lately from my liberal friends and acquaintances. Not that I don’t agree with many of the concerns voiced in these emails, but the shrill tone and inevitable hyperbole in these viral missives always end up making me roll my eyes and fear that the left is sounding more and more like a right-wing parody of the left.

I never forward such emails on, even when they’re not full of fear-based hyperbole. I don’t mind getting such messages myself but I don't like being a conduit for unsolicited emails of any kind, it’s just something that I never do. And I’ve purposely avoided including any of these messages on my blog.

However, this morning I received an email from a friend in Washington that I thought was so well written and to the point that for once I actually wanted to pass it on. You may have seen this already but I think it’s a fascinating read. It was written by Tim Wise, anti-racist activist and author of the books “White Like Me: Reflections on Race From a Privileged Son” and “Speaking Fluently: Anti-Racist Reflections From an Angry White Male.” Wise is a controversial figure in some circles. I admit that I’ve never been that comfortable with the term “white privilege” but this piece really brings it home for me.

In my view, I would question whether some of Wise's points below are more of an example of class privilege than white privilege. I also think that the tendency of the left to start sounding a bit condescending creeps into this piece towards the end, but overall I think it is an excellent, thought-provoking essay. I like it because it’s not about vilifying Sarah Palin, it’s about looking at our response to some of the issues surrounding her nomination and how it compares to the way other candidates are treated.

This is Your Nation on White Privilege 
by Tim Wise

For those who still can’t grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.

White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because “every family has challenges,” even as black and Latino families with similar “challenges” are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay. 

White privilege is when you can call yourself a “fuckin’ redneck,” like Bristol Palin’s boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll “kick their fuckin' ass,” and talk about how you like to “shoot shit” for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.

White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don’t all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you’re “untested."

White privilege is being able to say that you support the words “under God” in the pledge of allegiance because “if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it’s good enough for me,” and not be immediately disqualified from holding office--since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the “under God” part wasn’t added until the 1950s--while believing that reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know, the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school requires it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy liberals.

White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you.

White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto was “Alaska first,” and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you're black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she’s being disrespectful.

White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do--like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child labor--and people think you’re being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college--you’re somehow being mean, or even sexist.

White privilege is being able to convince white women who don’t even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because all of a sudden your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a “second look.”

White privilege is being able to fire people who didn’t support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.

White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God’s punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and everyone can still think you’re just a good church-going Christian, but if you’re black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism and its effect on black people, you’re an extremist who probably hates America.

White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a “trick question,” while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O’Reilly means you’re dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.

White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism is, as Sarah Palin has referred to it a “light” burden.

And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren’t sure about that whole “change” thing. Ya know, it’s just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain.

White privilege is, in short, the problem.

What do you think? Strangely, on some blogs I've seen this essay attributed to George Clooney, of all people. Living in the inner city near downtown L.A., I have to say that I've lately been made more explicitly aware of how I "benefit" from white privilege, mostly in how I am treated by police officers and others who view middle-aged white guys way differently than how they view most of the African-American and Latino men in my neighborhood.

Feminism, Part 2: 2008

I just got back from taking my daughter to see “The Women,” the new remake of the 1939 MGM classic that has been adapted and directed by Diane English. The original is high on my Top 10 list of the best films of all time. It starred Norma Shearer and Rosalind Russell as Manhattan socialites Mary Haines and Sylvia Fowler and a sexy Joan Crawford as manipulative shopgirl Crystal Allen who is having an affair with Mary’s unseen husband. Also starring in this exquisite film were Paulette Goddard, Joan Fontaine, Marjorie Main, Mary Boland, and nearly every actress under contract for Metro. Following the lead of the original film, not a single man appears in this new version of “The Women.” It's a terribly fun gimmick that was stupidly bypassed in the previous remake, a 1956 film called “The Opposite Sex” starring June Allyson, Dolores Gray, and Joan Collins as Mary, Sylvia, and Crystal. In the current version, those iconic parts are taken up by Meg Ryan, Annette Bening, and Eve Mendes. The cast includes a a bunch of great actresses including Candice Bergen, Bette Midler, Debra Messing, Jada Pinkett-Smith, and many others. My capsule review of the film is so short and pithy that I hereby give the studio permission to use it in their print ads:

"This piece of crap is the worst abomination since Rumor Has It dared to fuck with The Graduate."

—Danny Miller, “Jew Eat Yet?”

Holy Mother of God, this movie is so bad it’s not even worth the time to thoroughly trash it—I can’t bring myself to live in its world long enough. Lest you think I have some vendetta against this type of film, let me remind you how much I enjoy so-called chick flicks and what a fan I am of the talented women in this cast. Unlike Kendall, who boycotted the film out of disgust that anyone would attempt to tinker with such perfection, I was looking forward to seeing the film, convinced that the sparklingly witty Clare Booth Luce play on which it was based was perfect fodder for a modern treatment—an incisive look at relationships among women in the twenty-first century. It may have been, but apparently Diane English felt that the original play and movie were way too bitchy and showed women in too negative a light. She decided to twist the plot to showcase the fact that, no matter what else is going on in these characters’ lives, women are ALWAYS THERE FOR EACH OTHER, even if that means taking a cell phone call from a cheating ex-husband in the hospital room where one of the gal pals is giving birth to her sixth or seventh insufferable brat.

Luce’s original story was intended less as a love poem to her sex than a vicious and superbly written expose of the idle rich. Even so, I find the characters in the original film far more genuine and loving towards each other than anyone in this politically correct dreck. Check out the scene when Paulette Goddard tries to comfort Norma Shearer following her divorce, or when the friends rally around poor Mary Boland who’s just been humiliated by husband #6, or even when conniving but self-aware Joan Crawford gracefully admits defeat at the end of the film: “Well, it’s back to the perfume counter for me.” 

You’d be hard pressed to find a single authentic moment in the new film. The only characters that seemed remotely real were the older generation. Candice Bergen provided some rare laugh-out-loud moments as Mary Haines’ mother although the scene when Meg Ryan visits her following Bergen’s plastic surgery is painful to watch. The women in that scene look like something out of “The Snake Pit” and the whole theatre cruelly laughed when Ryan remarked to Bergen that if she ever goes under the knife, she hopes her daughter will be as supportive as she is. Um…IF she ever goes under the knife? Let’s be kind and leave it at that. I also liked Cloris Leachman as Ryan’s maid and Bette Midler in her frustratingly brief homage to Mary Boland’s Countess de Lave (now a ruthless Hollywood agent). It was actually painful to see some of these talented women so underused in this film. The most egregious offense was watching the brilliant Carrie Fisher in such a stupid, horrible, and tiny role (why oh why didn’t they let her rewrite this mess?).

Another shock was seeing all of these beautiful women looking so God-awful. Truly, the actresses should band together and file a class-action suit against Diane English and the cinematographer. The whole film was shockingly ugly. Where is George Cukor when you need him? English clearly isn’t gay enough to direct a bunch of women. And, oh God, did we have to see yet another montage of a woman “letting herself go,” which in movie terms involves Meg Ryan wearing sneakers and an ill-fitting sweater for a few scenes and sitting at her kitchen table eating M&Ms (the horror!). And then…voila…the stunning makeover which always consists of making curly hair bone straight, putting on a tight black dress and heels, and pulling a successful dazzling new career out of your ass. Please. As far as I’m concerned, Marilyn Monroe, Lauren Bacall, and Betty Grable presented a more realistic vision of New York women in the ridiculous 1953 film, “How to Marry a Millionaire.”

If this film reflects the 2008 version of feminist ideals, I may have to rethink my leftist leanings. But wait, what am I thinking? Clare Booth Luce was no liberal, she was a staunch conservative who was elected to Congress in 1942 as a Republican where she fought FDR and was warmly embraced by the ultraconservative isolationists. President Eisenhower appointed her Ambassador to Italy in 1953 and she had a famous meeting with Pope Pius XII when she lectured him on her values and told him he needed to be tougher on communism in defense of the Church. This caused the Holy Father to quietly reply, “You know, Mrs. Ambassador, I’m a Catholic, too.” Luce was clearly more Sylvia Fowler in her personal life than she was Mary Haines. She campaigned vigorously for Barry Goldwater in 1964 and was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by Ronald Reagan in 1983, four years before her death. I don’t think there’s any doubt who Clare Booth Luce would be supporting for President if she were alive today.

That must have been the problem with “The Women”—turning it over to the ultra-liberal Diane English, the woman who was publicly castigated by Vice President Dan Quayle for the single mother storyline on “Murphy Brown.” Maybe the new film needed to be reworked by someone with values closer to those of Clare Booth Luce. Can someone get Sarah Palin a three-picture deal at Paramount?

I can only think of one way to get the stench of this film out of my nostrils:

Feminism, Part 1: 1979

Why do feminists get such a bum rap? I’ve found myself getting embroiled lately in lots of heated exchanges with conservative commenters on other blogs about politics, especially about the nomination of Sarah Palin as McCain’s VP. One post written this morning by a blogger I read regularly included excerpts from an open letter that playwright Eve Ensler wrote about Sarah Palin. Here are some of the comments that post received:

“I seriously don’t get all this Feminangst. Penis envy?”

“Ugh, ugh, ugh. What I always hated about feminism.”

“Feminists are going insane because they're afraid the first woman vice president will be a Republican. They are going nuts, saying anything and everything, trying to prevent that. They are not thinking straight, and their hysterics should be ignored."

“Ensler: ‘Everything Sarah Palin believes in and practices is antithetical to Feminism.’ Could this statement be more wrong? Everything? Seriously? I wish unhinged liberals would check with me before hitting the send button after they've written their screeds. Seriously, if you want to make it easy for Sean Hannity to portray liberals as out of touch elitists, keep it up."

At least no one used the hideous term “feminazi.” To be honest, while I agree with the concerns underlying Ensler’s letter, I do find myself cringing at her shrill, Chicken Little-like tone. I think McCain and Palin are the wrong choice for this country, but if they do win, I don’t think we’ll wake up the next morning and find ourselves living inside of a Margaret Atwood novel. I understand the passion of people like Ensler but wonder if their screeching hyperbole hurts their own argument and makes them appear like the cartoon stereotypes conservatives have of liberals.

Still, I’m shocked by the anti-feminist propaganda that seems so prevalent right now in the wake of Hillary’s defeat and Palin’s ascendance. In a recent post on that same blog about Palin and abortion, one commenter described a “typical feminist” as someone who is cavalier about having multiple abortions and uses the procedure as birth control, never giving it a second thought. Absurd. I don’t believe there is a feminist alive with this attitude and yet somehow this stereotype persists among people who seem threatened by feminism, many of them women. But why are they so threatened?

fem·i·nism. noun
1. the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes.
2. organized activity on behalf of women’s rights and interests.

This week, Kendall, Leah, and I saw two different versions of that entertaining feminist fantasy: “9 to 5.” On Monday, the American Cinematheque screened the original movie version starring Lily Tomlin, Jane Fonda, and Dolly Parton as beleaguered secretaries getting revenge on the world’s most vile sexist pig played by Dabney Coleman. I don’t think I’ve seen the film since it came out in 1980 (it was, surprisingly, the second biggest grossing film of that year, just behind “The Empire Strikes Back”). I expected it to be fun but dated to the point where it might be hard to sit through. I couldn't have been more wrong, we loved every second of it, as did everyone in the packed theatre. 

Lily Tomlin was poignant and funny as tough but lovable Violet Newstead, Jane Fonda was uncharacteristically frumpy and awkward as newly divorced Judy Bernly, and Dolly Parton was perfect as country girl Doralee Rhodes. Screenwriter Patricia Resnick spoke after the film and reminded us that it was Dolly’s first movie. Not knowing how these things worked, she arrived on set for the first day of shooting having memorized not only her part, but the entire script. Unlike some of the more hammer-over-the-head feminist films of the day (“An Unmarried Woman” comes to mind), the message of “9 to 5” comes through loud and clear with great humor and no preaching. Here’s a short look at the fun:

We wanted Leah to see the film because on Thursday we went to one of the first performances of the musical version of “9 to 5,” now playing at the Ahmanson Theatre and headed for Broadway next spring. The play was also written by Patricia Resnick with a slew of new songs by Dolly Parton. Turning non-musical films into Broadway musicals is a common trend these days but it’s very hit or miss. As much as I loved the film, I didn’t think the plot would necessarily translate to the stage and I wondered if Dolly would be able to pull off an effective Broadway score. Again, we LOVED it!

Taking on the iconic roles of Violet, Judy, and Doralee are Allison Janney, Stephanie Block, and Megan Hilty. All were superb, making the roles completely their own while still giving plenty of winks to the beloved movie characters. I’ve probably seen a hundred plays with Kendall over the years and this is the first play I can remember where we didn’t try to rewrite the whole first act during intermission. (By the end, we had a few suggestions but we still thought it was a near-perfect transfer to the stage!) Is there anything Dolly Parton can’t do? Patricia Resnick told us that Parton was the easiest, nicest person she’s ever worked with, and the most prolific. The set of “9 to 5” deserves special mention with its incredible use of a giant video screen backdrop and the constantly changing scenery that simultaneously descends from above and rises from a huge hole on the stage that the actors must walk onto only seconds after the floor returns. It’s taken a while to work out the kinks of this dazzling set—previews were delayed a week after Marc Kudisch (playing the Dabney Coleman part) fell into the gaping pit before the floor reappeared.

When the movie version of “9 to 5” came out, the phrase “sexual harassment” had not yet entered the American lexicon. That was just “the way it was,” there was no special term for the ghastly way many bosses treated their female employees. I entered the workforce at exactly the same time as Judy Bernly. My first job was as a copy clerk at the Chicago Tribune. I can’t say I remember witnessing any blatant examples of sexism at the Tribune, but it was definitely an Old Boys Network. In my lowly role as copy clerk, I was parallel to a Judy Bernly or Doralee Rhodes, and even though I wasn’t being ogled, some people there treated us horribly. I remember the reporter who used to throw change at me and order me to go downstairs to buy him a donut, never looking up or saying thank you when I returned. Part of my job was pulling copy off the constantly spewing UPI and AP machines and there was a movie reviewer who used to put his feet up on the machines as he gazed at the incoming news stories, preventing me from pulling the copy. He never spoke to me directly. (I’m sure he would have if I’d been a woman so I should count my blessings!)

The following year I started my career in publishing with a job as Writer/Producer at SVE in Chicago, a producer of educational filmstrips, videos, and computer software. My boss was a fantastic woman named Sue Mahoney who became a true mentor for me and all of the writers under her wing. The above photo was taken in 1981 in Sue’s cramped office. That’s Sue on the phone feigning horror at some schedule that Maria Sosa (now a big honcho in Washington at the American Association for the Advancement of Science) is showing her. There’s David Bauman to the right of Sue, Rian Murphy and Susan Weiss to her left, all still talented writers spread out across the country. I’m on the left (was I ever that skinny?) standing over a blurry Sandra Jackson-Opoku, award-winning author of “The River Where Blood Is Born” and other books.

Sue Mahoney was a dream boss. Tough but kind, wildly supportive, always encouraging us to try new things and to stretch ourselves. I left SVE in 1986 when I moved to Los Angeles, but we never lost touch. She died a few years ago, full of life to the end, and always inspiring those around her. When I think back, almost all of my bosses have been strong women. And strong feminists. Sue Mahoney was a devout Catholic. I have no idea what her stance was on abortion or other hot-button topics but I know that she fought long and hard to rise to her position at various companies. I know that she endured a lot of the bullshit that Violet, Judy, and Doralee experienced and then made it her life mission to protect her own employees from such treatment.

It is because of Sue Mahoney and the other strong women I have known that I will never view “feminist” as a dirty word or let the right co-opt it as they have tried to do with the word “liberal.” I shudder to think what this world would be like today without all of the women who fought so hard for feminist causes.  

Best of the Worst

I rarely do "memes," those fill-in-the-blank templates that ricochet all over the Internet with lightning speed. One of the blogs I read regularly is written by a guy named Ian. I've never met him but he is the brother of Emily, a former publishing colleague of mine whose intelligent blog I also read. Ian recently left a career as a chef and is now getting a graduate degree in history (I'm jealous). He tagged me for a meme a while back that I intended to do but now I can't even remember what it was about. Instead, I'm taking a post he recently wrote about 15 "worsts," turning it into a meme, and tagging myself. I was so intrigued by this post that I'm keeping the categories exactly as Ian had them on his blog. What's more fun than purposeful kvetching?

Worst Concert: Aretha Franklin, 1983. But before you shun me I'll tell you what the best concert I ever saw was: Aretha Franklin, 1982. Do any of you remember ChicagoFest, the great summer music festival held at Navy Pier in the late 70s and early 80s? This music orgy lasted close to two weeks and had many stages where you could see all sorts of local talent (including my then-roommate’s band “The Hellcats” and “The Vanessa Davis Band” featuring my sister’s boyfriend Greg on drums). There were national acts on the large stage including Cheap Trick, Alice Cooper, Asleep at the Wheel, Muddy Waters, the Blues Brothers, and so on. One year, we waited in the blazing sun with thousands of beer-soaked fans to see the Queen of Soul herself, Aretha Franklin. She performed for nearly three hours and was simply electrifying. Though she’d gone through a lot of health problems and was much heavier, Aretha’s voice was in top form, as powerful as it was when she was in her mega-hit 60s heyday. When I saw that Aretha was headlining ChicagoFest the next year, I couldn't wait to go back. But this Aretha appeared distracted, disinterested, and vaguely hostile. Her voice was strained and she didn’t even try to hit the notes that seemed to come so easily the year before. She cut her set short without any warning and made an abrupt exit. I never found out what Aretha was going through that day. I was saddened by both the performance and by the reaction of many audience members who were so quick to turn on her. “No, you don’t understand,” I wanted to explain to each one of them. “Let me tell you about last year. Let me tell you about the magic this woman is capable of.”

Worst date: Being terrified of rejection, I never went on that many dates. I usually waited until it was crystal clear that someone was interested in me, thus delaying the more humiliating kinds of first-date awkwardness. When I first moved to Los Angeles in 1986, the company I was working for went bankrupt after five months and I was left broke, unemployed, and friendless. I had left a relationship in Chicago and was so lonely in my tiny orange-carpeted apartment in the San Fernando Valley that I used to make extra trips to the grocery store just to talk to the checkout cashiers. One day my father called from Chicago. The daughter of an old girlfriend of his was visiting L.A. and he thought it would be a good idea if we met. Normally I would run screaming from my father’s attempts to make a shiddach, as we Jews say, but I was desperate. You know how sometimes you instantly know that there is zero chemistry between you and another person and you’d rather eat glass than talk to them for another second? That’s how it was between me and Michelle. Our date seemed longer than the voyage of the Titanic and just as fun. Michelle was like an exaggerated Gilda Radner parody of a Jewish American Princess but without the humor. Any attempt I made to be amusing was met with the same incredulity as Woody Allen’s post-Diane Keaton date in “Annie Hall” (“just put the lobster in the pot”). After explaining that I was unemployed and broke (admittedly not the savviest first-date repartee), Michelle proceeded to order the most expensive item on the menu and then made no move to contribute a cent when the bill came.

Worst hangover: I’m happy to say the days of hangovers are far behind me, except an occasional New Year’s Day throbbing from too much Veuve Clicquot. In the late 70s, when I was in college and working at Gare St. Lazare, a French restaurant in Chicago, the staff went out one night to a neighboring Mexican restaurant called El Jardin. We ordered pitcher after pitcher of Margaritas. Yumm, this stuff is delicious, I thought. Very sweet and perfect with chips and salsa. I was so wasted by the end of the evening I remember very little except the bartender trying to sell me some pot and staggering onto the El train at about 4 am. Somehow I made it home but when I woke up at noon the next day it felt like my head was going through the meat grinder used at the Gare to make paté. It was years before I could even be in the same room with a shot of tequila and not want to hurl.

Worst roommate: I went to school in Paris during my Junior Year in College (1978-79). I was placed in a Catholic dorm (?) called the Maison Diocésaine on rue Madame. My roommate Francis hated Americans and chain-smoked filterless Gauloises cigarettes all day and night. He always had a bunch of friends over in our tiny room where they would listen to bad heavy metal music and talk in such a thick slang from their native Normandie that I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, not that any of them ever tried speaking to “l’Américain” as I was called. As luck would have it, my program had accidentally placed our one handicapped student in a seventh-story maid’s room with no elevator in the tony 16th arrondissement. They desperately needed to switch him with a student who lived on the first floor so after a week or so I said au revoir to Francis and moved to higher ground. Dieu merci!

Worst illness: My first wife and I had just returned from the emergency room after baby Leah had scratched my wife's cornea that morning with her tiny but razor-sharp fingernail. Seconds after putting my daughter in her crib, I suddenly doubled over in the worst pain I had ever experienced. Back we went to the emergency room, this time driven by an eye-patched Frenchwoman on heavy pain medication. As I sat in the waiting room, I was in such agony that I kept taking off my clothes, somehow thinking in my delirium that this would provide some relief. As soon as they saw me, they rushed me into surgery for an emergency appendectomy.

Worst meal: Back to my Junior Year Abroad which began with six weeks in the picturesque medieval town of Tours, France, in the Loire Valley. For these first six weeks in France I lived with the Chevaliers, a sweet family whose parents were both professors at the local university. Though they were highly educated, they were rural people at heart, and they had many animals on the grounds of their 16th century house including some adorable bunny rabbits with huge floppy ears. One day the young son, Guillaume Chevalier, introduced me to his favorite rabbit, a magnificent lop named Nantes. The next night we were having a family celebration to honor Guillaume’s first day of school. With great fanfare, Madame Chevalier brought in a large platter for the special meal. There, on the plate was a whole rabbit, sans fur and swimming in a garlicky white wine sauce. It was Nantes, Madame Chevalier cheerfully announced, and he was going to make quite a succulent treat. To add to the horror, Nantes’ earless head was still attached to the body, his teeth bared and oozing wine sauce. Mon dieu. Guillaume didn’t seem the least bit phased and he enjoyed munching down on his pet. I forced a few forkfuls of Nantes into my mouth and washed it down with a lot of Orangina. Runner-up for my worst meal: at another family banquet, Madame Chevalier served us a foul-smelling tripe dish, also known as the stomach lining of a cow. To this day, when anyone asks me if there are any foods I don’t eat, I say, “no, I like everything…except rabbit and tripe.”

Worst book I actually finished: This is the only category where I could reprint Ian’s reponse word-for-word. Here it is:

The Fountainhead. I know it seems like I have an axe to grind with Ayn Rand, but I just hate all that superior social darwinism crap. Problem is, and I don’t like to admit this, the writing was compelling enough to see me through to the end…and, sigh, actually made the book difficult to put down. There, I’ve said it. Moving on…

Wow, I could have written that myself, that’s a little scary. My runner-up would be “The Celestine Prochecy.” I enjoyed the New Age mumbo jumbo in the book and read it cover to cover but on every single page I kept thinking, “I can’t believe how badly written this is!”

Worst movie: I’ve seen a lot of bad movies but I’ve only walked out of one: “Switching Channels,” a misguided 1988 remake of “His Girl Friday” which was itself a remake of the wonderful “The Front Page.” This monstrosity starred Burt Reynolds and Kathleen Turner in the Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell roles, and Christopher Reeve as Turner’s hapless fiancé. It was so bad it nearly destroyed the career of all three. What sent me over the edge was seeing them butcher so much of the original dialogue from the 1940 comedy. After about half an hour, I couldn't take any more. I ran out of the theatre and snuck into the screen next door which was showing "Cocoon: The Return." Not a great film but it seemed like an AFI classic in comparison. To his credit, Reeves later expressed regret that he made the film. He said he only agreed to be in it as a distraction from a depression he was in following his breakup from Gae Exton, the mother of his oldest child. He said he spent most of the film acting as a referee for Burt Reynolds and Kathleen Turner who despised each other.

Worst try-out: Ooh, this is sad because I don’t think I ever tried out for anything, at least not in the usual sense. I was never on a sports team and I never tried out for a play. My daughter Leah is sitting here and was shocked when I told her that because she’s 13 and has already tried out for dozens of plays and teams. Could a job interview be considered a try-out? I guess my worst one of those was just after graduating college. I couldn’t find work at first and I saw an open call for American Airlines flight attendants. Perfect! I was dying to get back to Europe and this would provide me with endless travel opportunities as I decided what I wanted to do with my life. I appeared at the interview site with a bunch of big-haired women who looked like they were runners-up in the Miss Wasilla beauty pageant. These women were cheerful enough to induce a diabetic coma in Ebenezer Scrooge. Coming off my long-playing run as Disgruntled Student, I didn’t do cheerful. I was the first one dismissed, a fact I am very grateful for since a few weeks later I got a great job as a writer/producer of educational filmstrips.

Worst moment in a classroom: I was a Radio/TV/Film major at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. For some reason I was required to take an Introduction to Interpretation class even though I had no idea what Interpretation was unlike the rest of my classmates who were in the acting program. My professor was Frank Galati, who later became a Tony Award-winning director and was nominated for an Oscar for his screenplay of “The Accidental Tourist.” His new play, “Kafka on the Shore,” opens at the Steppenwolf Theatre in Chicago next week. Back in the fall of 1976, we had to choose a piece from a book to dramatize in front of the class. My talented classmates chose exquisite, moving selections from a range of classical books. What did I choose? A scene from “Gone With the Wind” in which I had to interpret Scarlett O’Hara, Rhett Butler, and speak in the phonetic “Negro dialect” Margaret Mitchell wrote for the slave characters. “Oh, Mista Rhett, you sho’ is baaaad!” Forgive me, Dr. Galati, by all rights you should have had me banned from the campus. Second worst moment: peeing in my pants in first grade when I was up in front of the class. But I’d rather go through that again than perform as Mammy in front of a group of college students.

Worst computer mishap: My most traumatic computer mishaps were both documented on this blog: the crash of my unbacked-up hard drive last November and the theft of my still unbacked-up laptop last April. It took two total losses to learn my lesson (I now back up regularly). Another mishap happened when I was working for a nonprofit in the early 90s. I had hired a bunch of writers to work on a history-based curriculum project. One of the writers was submitting work that was unacceptable and she was also a major pain in the ass. I wrote a long email to my boss explaining how this writer was such an obnoxious prima dona and why we needed to let her go. The second I pressed “send,” I realized to my horror that I had accidentally sent the email to the writer herself. In those prehistoric days, emails would gather on the main server in a business before going out into the world. The cycle would take about ten minutes. In my utter panic, I did the only thing I could think of—I ran into the closet where the computer server was kept and quickly yanked the plug out of the wall, not only deleting my email but also everyone else’s in the building along with any unsaved files they were working on.

Worst job: My first job during high school was at Wolfy’s Hot Dogs in Chicago. Great dogs (I still eat them when I’m there) but at the time I felt a bit abused by the $2.10 hourly wage and the fact that we had to go off the clock during our 15-minute breaks and pay FULL price for our hot dogs. So what’s an unhappy employee to do? Every time I went into the cooler I would grab freshly cut pickles or tomatoes or other accoutrements and shove them in my mouth as fast as I could. I’d also “spill” milkshakes whenever I made them until I had a full cup to gulp down.

Worst fashion choice: Hmmm, what to cite? My lime-green Nehru jacket? My first pair of pristine white bell bottoms that I wore to Fran Stein’s boy-girl party? The purple “leisure suit” I wore in a commercial for Karoll’s, my grandfather’s clothing store? My oversized filthy ripped-to-shreds jeans jacket I wore every single day? My wide polyester ties or hip peace-sign medallions? My childhood is a cavalcade of velour, Qiana, and corduroy horrors. But it was the 1970s so cut me some slack.

Worst bruise: We were visiting my sister’s house in Indiana two summers ago and hiking in the woods following a big rain. There, in the distance, was a large tree, felled by the storm and laying horizontal in the woods on top of some other shrubs and bushes. Some fantasy of the tree-climbing childhood I never had came over me and I ran to the tree and hoisted myself up onto its rough, wet surface to walk across it. There was nothing to hold onto and after about ten seconds I lost my balance and fell off the tree, bouncing off the sharp branches and landing face down in the thorny bushes underneath. I will never forget the sound of my daughter’s screams who thought I had broken my neck. I remember my own slow-motion thoughts as I was going down: “Isn’t this silly. I’m going to be paralyzed for life because of this one moment. How embarrassing.” Miraculously, I walked away with just a few ugly bruises—to my face, my arms, and my ego.

Worst airline experience: Two to choose from. I was going to Europe with my girlfriend Julie on Icelandair. It was the cheapest way to get from Chicago to Europe and entailed a quick stopover in Rejkavik where you were herded into an airport store to buy thick Icelandic sweaters and stuffed puffins and then back onto the plane which landed in the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. Getting on the plane at O’Hare Airport, something seemed off. The doors were shut, we taxied to the runway, and then we sat there, with no food or drink for one, two, three, four, five, SIX hours. Several allusions were made by me to Jews in Nazi cattle cars, but 12 hours after boarding, we reached our destination. Probably the scariest flight I was ever on was an Aeroflot plane on New Year’s Eve 1978 between Moscow and Leningrad. It was the coldest winter that the Soviet Union had seen since before the Revolution and the ice was so thick around the plane that we couldn’t see out the windows. I remember the sound of workers chipping away at the hull of the plane to get the ice off as I pored through my English-Russian dictionary looking up how to say "Get me off this fucking thing!” Once airborne, the flight was so bumpy that the carry-on luggage stored in NETS overhead went flying every which way, usually into my head. The smoking Aeroflot flight attendants, not exactly known for their obsequious manner, laughed after spilling drinks on customers and walked down the aisle throwing unwrapped pieces of processed luncheon meat at us. Getting off the plane in Leningrad, I pulled a Pope John Paul II and kissed the ground in gratitude. 

Hey, Miller, stop yer complaining! At least you're not filling out categories such as Worst Mental Collapse, Worst Dismemberment, or Worst Genocide. 

Corrupt Politicians and My 49th Birthday

 

I have a hard time letting go of traditions, no matter how ridiculous or recent they are. Three years ago, to mark my 46th birthday, I wrote a post about the film that won the Best Picture Oscar in 1946, “The Best Years of Our Lives.” 1946…I turned 46…get it? The following year I wrote about the ’47 winner, “Gentleman’s Agreement,” and then last year, when I turned 48, I ruminated on “Hamlet” and the other films nominated in 1948.

Today is my 49th birthday. It also happens to be the last day of the Republican National Convention. John McCain makes his Big Speech tonight, following Sarah Palin’s turn last night. It seems a perfect time to talk about the Best Picture winner for 1949. Do you remember what it was? “All the King’s Men,” a powerful film about a rural politician who gains fame for his populist views and ultimately, thanks to his insatiable thirst for power, becomes more corrupt and dangerous than the politicians he once condemned. I’m not implying that the story of Willie Stark mirrors the career of John McCain in many ways (although, in my opinion, McCain has sold his soul several times over in his quest for the White House). If anything, the populist angle of the story more closely evokes the sensibilities of an Obama or Palin.

I’d like to say that the story of “All the King’s Men” reminds me of the back-room machinations of past and current Republican leaders but I have to admit the Republicans have no monopoly on such power grabs (remember, I grew up under the papal authority of the first Mayor Daley). And I can’t ignore the fact that “All the King’s Men” is loosely based (some say, not so loosely) on the life of Democratic Governor and Senator from Louisiana, Huey P. Long, who was assassinated on September 8, 1935 at the State Capitol in Baton Rouge. Long’s “Share Our Wealth” and “Every Man a King” philosophies were enormously popular during the Depression and he achieved near dictatorial status in his home state. Long was planning to mount a presidential bid before he was cut down at the age of 42.

I have always been fascinated by the story of Huey Long. Because he’s such a riveting character, I’m tempted to view him, as Richard Nixon did, as an American folk hero. Did Robert Penn Warren’s Pulitizer Prize-winning book “All the King’s Men” and the subsequent film versions slander Huey Long? It’s clear that his ideas were radical and his power absolute but he also achieved a lot of positive things during his political career. In the end, however, there’s no way in hell I can defend a man who was ready to hop into bed with vile American thugs such as Father Charles Coughlin and Gerald L. K. Smith, a Disciples of Christ minister and founder of the America First Party. (Hmm…America First. Sound familiar?) In 1934, Long started the Share the Wealth Society, whose purpose was to redistribute America’s wealth. Talk about controversial. Under this plan, no individual in this country would be allowed to accumulate a personal net worth of more than $5 million (income taxes would be levied on the rich to ensure this) and every American family would get a “homestead allowance” that would guarantee a yearly income of not less than one-third the average family income in the United States. After Long was assassinated, Gerald Smith took over the group and aligned it more closely with the anti-Semitic Coughlin and white supremacy groups.

After he died, Huey Long’s son Russell followed his dad into politics and become one of this country’s longest serving Senators. He was the only person in U.S. history to have been preceded in the Senate by both of his parents (his mother briefly took over her husband’s senate seat in the 1930s). U.S. Senators must be at least 30 years old but Russell Long was elected the day before his 30th birthday (he didn’t take office for a month so it was okay). When he finally retired in 1987, Ronald Reagan called him “one of the most skillful legislators, compromisers, and legislative strategists in history.” And what about our current candidates? Well, when Joseph Biden was a brand new senator, he was in awe of Russell Long. 

From a 1975 New York Times article:

If he is not careful, Biden said, Long can persuade him to vote for almost anything—especially when it comes to oil tax cuts—and not until he is halfway home from work does he awaken to ask himself: “Wait a minute; what have I voted for?”

It was during the debate on the tax-cut bill on the Senate floor that Biden, at 32 the youngest U.S. senator, paid tribute in his fashion to Long, wily 56-year-old chairman of the Senate Finance Committee who was fighting to preserve tax breaks for oilmen.

“I do not know anyone more persuasive,” the Delaware senator said. “I am afraid that by the time he has finished he will convince me that oil depletion will assist my chicken farmers, that everyone in this body who is a farmer has oil under his land and that this is really a farm bill.”

The way Biden painted it, he is spellbound time and again by Long’s siren song. “He worries the devil out of me,” said the young senator. “By the time he gets finished, I just know I am going to be voting for something I should not be voting for—and walk out of her thinking I just won. I’ll get halfway up to Wilmington on the Metroliner and say, ‘Wait a minute! I don’t have any oil wells in my state!’”

Actor Broderick Crawford won a Best Actor Oscar in 1949 for his portrayal of the Huey Long-like Willie Stark. Crawford was only (gulp!) 38 when he filmed this movie. His next major film, “Born Yesterday,” starring the fabulous Judy Holliday, was also an incisive look at corrupt politicians. Crawford was brilliant as millionaire tycoon Harry Brock opposite Holliday’s Billie Dawn. I have to sit down when I realize that Crawford was 39 when he made this film. I am ten years older than that old geezer Harry Brock? Help!

In “All the King’s Men,” Willie Stark is plunging in the polls when he delivers a speech that wins the heart of the masses by appealing to them as one of their own (hello, Sarah Palin). He throws out the prepared speech that the party wrote for him (goodbye, Sarah Palin) and casts himself as the underdog who will work for the people (hello, Sarah Palin). Here’s part of the speech that won Willie Stark the election and Broderick Crawford the Oscar:

Naw, I’m not gonna read you any speech. But I am gonna tell you a story. It's a funny story so get ready to laugh. Get ready to bust your sides laughin', 'cause it's sure a funny story. It's about a hick, a hick like you, if you please. Yeah, like you. He grew up on the dirt roads and the gully washes of a farm. He knew what it was to get up before dawn and get feed and slop and milk before breakfast, and then set out before sunup and walk six miles to a one-room, slab-sided schoolhouse. Aw, this hick knew what it was to be a hick, all right. He figured if he was gonna get anything done, well, he had to do it himself. So he sat up nights and studied books. He studied law, because he thought he might be able to change things some—for himself and for folks like him. 

Now I'm not gonna lie to ya. He didn't start off thinkin' about the hicks and all the wonderful things he was gonna do for 'em. Naw, naw, he started off thinkin' of number one. But something came to him on the way. How he could do nothin' for himself without the help of the people. That's what came to him. And it also came to him with the powerful force of God's own lightning back in his home county when the school building collapsed 'cause it was built of politics' rotten brick. It killed and mangled a dozen kids.

But you know that story. The people were his friends because he’d fought that rotten brick. And some of the politicians down in the city, they knew that, so they rode up to his house in a big, fine, shiny car and said as how they wanted him to run for Governor. And he swallowed it. He looked in his heart and he thought, in all humility, how he'd like to try and change things. He was just a country boy who thought that even the plainest, poorest man can be Governor if his fellow citizens find he's got the stuff for the job. All those fellows in the striped pants, they saw that hick and they took him in.

Now, listen to me, you hicks. Yeah, you're hicks too, and they fooled you a thousand times, just like they fooled me. But this time, I'm gonna fool somebody. I'm gonna stay in this race. I'm on my own and I'm out for blood. Now listen to me, you hicks! Listen to me, and lift up your eyes and look at God's blessed and unfly-blown truth. And this is the truth. You're a hick, and nobody ever helped a hick but a hick himself!

Alright, listen to me! Listen to me! I'm the hick they were gonna use to split the hick vote. Well, I'm standin' right here now on my hind legs. Even a dog can learn to do that. Are you standin' on your hind legs? Have you learned to do that much yet? Here it is! Here it is you hicks! Nail up anybody who stands in your way! Nail up Joe Harrison! Nail up McMurphy! And if they don't deliver, give me the hammer and I'll do it myself!

Great speech and great delivery. Too bad that the message of such stories is always how power corrupts. I recently saw another spectacular film that examines this theme—Elia Kazan’s “A Face in the Crowd” from 1957 starring Andy Griffith as “Lonesome” Rhodes, a country hick who catches on with the public, becomes a populist hero, and then, once again, ends up a monster in his insatiable thirst for power.

Is it possible to be a populist and avoid the Dark Side? As much as I wanted to puke during the hysterical chanting at last night’s Republican Convention, particularly during Rudy Giuliani’s disgusting attack dog speech where he practically equated being a “community organizer” with being a “child molester,” I was equally uncomfortable when the Obama crowds were whipped into an adulatory frenzy at last week’s Democratic show. I hope that Obama can process the hero-worshipping of him without succumbing to the pitfalls of a Willie Stark or Lonesome Rhodes.

And so, today I am 49, only one year away from the big 5-0. I am several years older than Ulysses S. Grant, Teddy Roosevelt, John F. Kennedy, and Bill Clinton were when they were elected President. I am three years older than Barack Obama, five years older than Sarah Palin. How did that happen? I can’t fathom being in such a powerful leadership role as these people. Is that because I still see myself as a “kid,” no matter how old I get biologically? Do I suffer from a bad case of arrested development? I certainly do not want McCain to become President but the one area that is a sticking point for many people about him is for me one of his main pluses: his age. Part of me is far more comfortable staying in the mode where my parents’ generation is running the world. Of course they are running it, no matter how badly. After all, we’re just the children, we’re just learning, we’ll get our turn. Um…no…it’s long past time for us (and me) to stand up and take our place among the leaders.

Rating the First Ladies

The more I see and learn about Michelle Obama, the more I admire her. I thought her speech at the Democratic Convention last week was fantastic—moving, heartfelt, intelligent, inspiring. What an incredible public speaker. I get very excited at the thought of Michelle as First Lady. I feel in my gut that she’d be one of the best this country has ever seen and I know she’d accomplish great things in the White House. I pray we all have the chance to find out how she’d take to this role. And who knows—she’s certainly more than qualified to pull a Hillary Clinton at some future date and run for public office herself.

I am far less impressed with Cindy McCain but look forward to hearing what she has to say at this week’s truncated Republican Convention. Unlike Michelle, she can hardly focus on the early days of her relationship since John was still married to his first wife at the time. I was disgusted when Cindy pounced on Michelle Obama last February after her widely misinterpreted line about being proud of her country. And Mrs. McCain, what’s the deal with submitting recipes cribbed from the Food Network to national magazines and trying to pass them off as your own? She did this not once, but twice. As if we care how good a cook she or any First Lady is.  (This just in: Just heard Laura Bush and Cindy McCain speaking at the convention. You'd be hard pressed to find two less compelling speakers or listen to more bland words even though they were mostly talking about a potentially devastating natural disaster. The constant focus on Hurricane Gustav makes me want to hurl since it is so calculated. The Republican leadership is probably disappointed that the hurricane wasn't as bad as people feared—McCain is losing his chance for a true Giuliani moment.)

My strong desire to see Michelle Obama in the White House has made me think about the ten other First Ladies who have lived in the White House since I was born. Here is how I’d rate them, from best to worst. This is off the top of my head, I may desperately want to switch the order as soon as I post.

1. Jacqueline Kennedy. As I’ve mentioned, watching Kennedy’s funeral on TV with my sobbing mother is my first memory (I was four years old). I could almost say that the haunting image of Jackie with her black veil may be the first visual that got saved in my memory banks, and I’ve been in love with her ever since. Forgetting that she was the most beautiful woman ever to step foot in the White House, I am mightily impressed by Jackie’s intelligence and her passion for U.S. history. When the Kennedys moved into the White House in 1961, the building was nearly trashed and looted of many of its historical treasures. The incredible work Jackie did to restore the White House in her short time there should be lauded by anyone who cares about this history of this country. I recently watched her wonderful 1962 television tour of the White House (available on both iTunes and YouTube). Though awkward at times and clearly scripted, her expertise shines through and you almost hate it when President Kennedy joins her at the end and she reverts to a more subservient role. Despite her breathy Marilyn Monroe-like voice, Jacqueline Kennedy embodied a host of new possibilities for modern American women. 

2. Hillary Clinton. Abrasive? Sure. Loathed by many during her years in the White House? Absolutely. Brilliant? You bet. I remember in 2000 when people first started talking about the possibility of Hillary running for President, I laughed and laughed. “It will never happen,” I said with smug certainty. “She could never get elected for any office in this country, much less President.” Well, as we know, Senator Clinton came extremely close to clinching the nomination and though she remains a polarizing figure, I hope she stays in the Senate for many years to come. She is doing a fabulous job and I think she has much more to contribute to this country, despite what she’s endured and dished out herself while in the public eye. And at this point I sure wouldn’t rule out the possibility that she’ll run for higher office again at some future date.

3. Betty Ford. See, I’m not just top-loading my list with Democrats and relegating all the Republican wives to the bottom tier. I had great respect for Betty Ford during her few years in the White House. At 90 she is now the oldest living First Lady. She was the first one in my memory who had been divorced. And what she did to bring awareness to alcohol and drug addiction had an enormous impact on this country, along with her open discussion of her breast cancer. Though a lifelong Republican, she supported the Equal Rights Amendment, was strongly pro-choice, and even spoke candidly about marijuana and pre-marital sex. In today’s climate, such a Republican wife would be ostracized and shunned. I remember Betty Ford’s good-natured appearance as herself on “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” She was clearly way more popular than her unelected husband. Following Ford’s unsuccessful 1976 presidential campaign, Betty said, “I would give my life to have Jerry have my poll numbers.”

4. Rosalynn Carter. Oh, how I love Rosalynn Carter. Say what you want about Jimmy Carter, his troubled presidency, and his recent controversies, I will always remain a huge Rosalynn fan. This is a woman who was always able to show her unwavering support and love for her husband without seeming like a Stepford Wife, and her work in the mental health field was ground-breaking for a First Lady. Despite my attraction to Jackie’s breathtaking glamour, I loved that Rosalynn wore the same (hideous) gown to her husband’s inaugural ball as she had worn six years earlier when he became governor of Georgia. I’ll never forget the sight of Jimmy and Rosalynn walking hand-in-hand down Pennsylvania Avenue on Inauguration Day. Has there ever been a First Couple so clearly in love with each other? (I guess the Reagans qualify.) I admire all of the tireless work Rosalynn has done since leaving Washington, including her efforts for Habitat for Humanity and with the Rosalynn Carter Institute for Caregiving at Georgia Southwestern State University. She’s a damn good writer and, though she probably never met a Jew until she was an adult, Rosalynn Carter is someone I’d call a real mensch.

5. Nancy Reagan. Surprised to see her in this position? So am I. I loathed Ronald Reagan’s Presidency (although compared to George W. Bush he seems like the most brilliant politician who ever walked the earth) and I had nothing but contempt for Nancy during those years. As much as I appreciated Jackie Kennedy’s glamming up the White House, I was offended by Nancy Reagan’s attempts to do the same thing after sweeping out the Carters with yesterday’s trash. Her famous “Just Say No” campaign seemed ludicrous at the time, and her relationship with her kids was troubled at best. And, as a final dig, I thought most of her old movies stank up the joint. But since leaving the White House I admit I’ve re-evaluated my opinion of Nancy. Her love for her husband was fierce, almost to the point of dysfunction. I admired how she cared for him, even if meant ordering people like Strom Thurmond out of his hospital room following the assassination attempt. I thought she handled her husband’s illness with dignity and class and I cried when I saw her break down while hugging his coffin at his 2004 funeral. But what really made me change my tune about Nancy and helped her move up my list was how she refused to back down in her support of stem-cell research and basically told the leaders of the Republican Party to go fuck themselves.

6. Lady Bird Johnson. Oh wait, I’m already feeling guilty that I’m putting Lady Bird behind Nancy Reagan. I’d change it but I said this would be off the top of my head. As a kid, I remember negatively comparing Lady Bird to Jacqueline Kennedy but now I have much greater appreciation for her time as First Lady, especially her efforts to beautify America and work to conserve America’s natural resources. I’ll never forget the stricken look on her face in that famous shot from the plane in November 1963 when LBJ was taking the oath of office next to a blood-spattered Jackie Kennedy. Lady Bird is responsible for turning the role of First Lady into a real job. She was the first to have her own Press Secretary and Chief of Staff. She worked hard for passage of the Civil Rights Act and was a huge asset to her husband even though she was easy to make fun of. In her later years she continued to work for conservation issues, something I value a lot more now than I did as a kid. She and her husband and their two daughters all had the same initials: LBJ. A true American original.

7. Pat Nixon. Mrs. Nixon scared me when I was a kid. I found her aloof and impenetrable, like she hated every second she spent in the public eye. She seemed the last of a breed of traditional First Ladies. She was voted Outstanding Homemaker of the Year and the Nation’s Ideal Housewife when her husband was Vice President. Once she became First Lady, she continued Jackie Kennedy’s efforts to bring important historical items back into the White House. Before Hillary Clinton, she was the most traveled First Lady ever, and she was the first Republican First Lady to address a national convention (something that is expected now). She was dead-set against her husband resigning in 1974 and was seen crying as he gave his farewell speech. She later told her daughter, Julie Nixon Eisenhower, “Watergate is the only crisis that ever got me down…and I know I will never live to see the vindication.” She died in 1993, a day after her 53rd wedding anniversary, and I remember feeling newfound sympathy for President Nixon, seeing the anguish her death caused him. He died 10 months later. I was haunted by Joan Allen’s portrayal of Pat Nixon in the otherwise forgettable Oliver Stone film about President Nixon.

8. Mamie Eisenhower. Well, I was only 15 months old when Mamie Eisenhower left the White House so I have no actual memories of her then or later. She was the last First Lady born in the 19th century and was really of a different world. What a mind-blowing era change that must have been when Jacqueline Kennedy breezed into the White House after eight years of Mamie. I’m amused to read that Mrs. Eisenhower was a real penny pincher who even clipped coupons for the White House staff. She apparently was not happy about Kennedy’s election and was very snippy to Jackie when she gave her a tour of the White House before the inauguration. What else is there to say about this woman? How about the Hollywood starlet who signed a contract with Universal on the day Eisenhower took office and was given the First Lady’s name by the studio. Who was that? You guessed it—Mamie Van Doren. Oy, now there was someone light years apart from her namesake!

9. Laura Bush. Yawn. Has there ever been a First Lady who has squandered her time in the White House more? I realize that may be unfair, but I can’t possibly be unbiased about anyone who would choose to marry that guy. As a former teacher and alleged literacy activist, she should have been fighting against her husband’s crazy-ass policies including the God-awful No Child Left Behind Act. Hmm, let me find something positive to say about her. In 2000, she had the chutzpah to say that she didn’t think Roe v. Wade should be overturned (she hasn’t said that since). In 2006 she said that she didn’t think people should politicize the fight over same-sex marriage. And she had the class to defend Michelle Obama when people were attacking her for the “proud of my country” comment. “I think she probably meant I’m ‘more proud,’" Laura told an ABC News reporter. “You have to be very careful in what you say. I mean, I know that, and that’s one of the things you learn and that’s one of the really difficult parts both of running for president and for being the spouse of the president, and that is, everything you say is looked at and in many cases misconstrued.” I suddenly feel bad about all the obnoxious judgment I’m meting out in this post. Laura Bush is probably a good person. I wish her well in her post-White House years—and those years can’t come soon enough!

10. Barbara Bush. Wait, is there time for one more bout of my obnoxious judgment? Unlike her daughter-in-law, I cannot give Barbara Bush the benefit of the doubt. I thought she was relatively harmless when she was First Lady, but in retrospect I’d almost peg her as the true menace of the Bush family, as slyly manipulative as the Angela Lansbury character in “The Manchurian Candidate.” I find her a vile person. Her comments about Geraldine Ferraro during the 1984 campaign were utterly classless. (She said she couldn’t say on television what she thought of the vice presidential candidate but that “it rhymes with rich.”) One of her most offensive comments came when she was visiting a Houston relief center for victims of Hurricane Katrina three years ago this week. “What I'm hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas…Everybody is so overwhelmed by the hospitality, and so many of the people in the arenas here, you know, were underprivileged anyway. This is working very well for them.” There’s a great scene in Spike Lee’s documentary “When the Levees Broke” when feisty Katrina survivor Phyllis Montana-Leblanc hears this line and starts angrily shouting her actual phone number over and over again, daring Barbara Bush to call her and repeat the statement that anyone was better off following the hurricane. No wonder McCain is doing back flips today to appear sympathetic to the victims of Hurricane Gustav.

Let’s just hope that I’ll soon be adding Michelle Obama to this list.