Category: National

A recent Sunday New York Times piece made the case that “Jeb Bush’s easy victory made him an obvious presidential candidate for 2008, and President Bush’s announcement that he would keep Dick Cheney as vice president avoided anointing a rival to his brother.”

Taking the second part first, the president was supportive of Vice President Cheney in answer to a press conference question. How else could he be expected to respond under those circumstances? Should he have gone with: “Actually, Rudy is waiting in the wings and there are numerous cover story scenarios that will allow for a Bush-Giuliani ticket”?

Frankly, three Bushes, regardless of what else happens on George W’s watch, would be one too many for America. Granted, we do like our political legacies — as in Adams, Harrison, Taft or Kennedy — almost as much as we like our athletic ones — as in Manning, Bonds or DiMaggio.

But while John and Quincy Adams are father-and-son precedents, going to the family well a third time, one suspects, would smack less of legacy and accomplishment than aristocracy and entitlement. Jeb Bush, to whom arrogance is not unfamiliar, is not the best candidate for noblesse oblige poster pol.

America may love its faux Camelots, but don’t expect to see it abiding monarchial trappings.

With apologies to supervisors of elections and civics teachers everywhere, it is blasphemously suggested here that not everybody vote. I know; I know. That’s un-American, probably subversive and certainly elitist. And Hillsborough County Supervisor of Elections Pam Iorio is already launching a heat-seeking epistle my way.

But hear out this heresy.

America’s love affair with democracy has always had its incongruous side. Our Declaration of Independence accommodated both the essence of equality and the nature of slavery. The franchise to vote had quirky exceptions regarding land ownership, race and gender. And elections, as it turns out, aren’t necessarily won by the candidate with the most votes.

Relatively speaking, this is not nearly so iconoclastic.

In the idealistic interest of a more meaningful, participatory democracy, let’s encourage — because we can’t actually mandate — the truly clueless to either find out what’s going on or just pass on the polls come election day. Let’s stop wringing our societal hands about all those who don’t bother to vote. Not voting is as American as not taking the stand in your own criminal defense. Let’s just recognize it for what it is; such non-voters have, in effect, disenfranchised themselves out of ignorance, born of laziness and apathy.

The only viable choices should be these: a reasonably informed vote or no vote. Wooing, cajoling, pleading, humiliating, browbeating and bribing need no longer be part of our pre-election ritual.

Simply showing up because some “Get Out The Vote” campaign exhorted and shamed you is not a good enough reason to vote. How about because you care? Because it’s important. Because a viable democracy requires an informed citizenry. And because there are those still risking their lives to defend rights that include this one.

And simply showing up because of some political party’s “knock-and-drag” vote trolling shouldn’t even pass muster with a Jimmy Carter election monitor. Such scenarios, of course, always come with party line marching orders — lock step democracy at its finest.

Why do you think there were some 10,000 “overvotes” in Duval County in 2000? Because the Democratic Party’s “Get Out The Vote” campaign targeted a lot of first-time minority voters and sent them to the polls with nothing more than directions and directives to vote Democratic and punch every page. The presidential ballot, alas, had two pages. Those literally following orders literally “overvoted.” If you believe this ballot parody was better than not voting, then you might also believe that courageous civil rights activists sacrificed and died for the right of future generations to overvote.

Put it this way: If it takes a shame campaign, a personal entreaty by Barbra Streisand or Charlton Heston or a special interest’s dragnet to get you to the polls, try sitting it out. Exercise, if nothing else, some restraint and consider it a duty not to make a sham out of the sacrosanct right to vote. Not casting that manipulated or ill-informed vote is arguably a patriotic act.

One man, one vote sounds unassailably good, especially to the Supreme Court that decreed it in the 1960s. One man, one informed vote, however, still sounds infinitely better.

As horrible and harrowing as the hostage-taking in that Moscow theater was, the most chilling aspects had nothing to do with deadly gas. They were the Chechen threats made in pre-assault videotapes. They were delivered — predictably and disturbingly enough — to the Moscow bureau of al-Jazeera, the Muslim-friendly, Qatar-based news channel that often serves as an al-Qaida conduit.

First, some background. Since it was conquered by czarist armies in 1859, Chechnya has smoldered under Russian rule. Soviet dictator Josef Stalin deported many to their deaths during World War II. After a war in the mid 1990s, the breakaway republic in southern Russia gained de facto independence. Three years ago Russian troops re-entered in response, Russian leaders said, to rebel raids and bombings.

It’s your basic, intractable, sovereignty-and-freedom dilemma that has festered across the generations and cost countless lives. It is further fueled by religious affiliation. The population, approximately 1.2 million, is mostly Muslim.

For those who still harbor hopes that this increasingly polarized, terrorist-traipsing world is not a battle of civilizations and that it’s “not about Islam,” the Chechen videotape is required reviewing.

On one tape, a rebel acknowledged that the 50 or so Chechen hostage-takers, approximately half of whom were women, were on a “martyrdom operation.” To underscore their leverage, as well as a perverse sense of presumption, he said, “I swear by God we are more keen on dying than you are keen on living.”

On the other tape, five veiled women stood before a banner that proclaimed “God is Great” in Arabic. For the sake of argument, agreed. In fact, keen. But their point being? Could it be that nobody knows intractable sovereignty issues like Allah — especially after a century and a half to deliberate?

“We have chosen this path, the path of struggling for the freedom of the Chechen,” said one of the women. She then alarmingly added: “It makes no difference for us where we will die. We have chosen to die here, in Moscow, and we will take the lives of hundreds of the infidels with us.”

You knew it was coming.

This bloody conflict — borne of subjugation and thwarted self-determination since the middle of the 19th century — has been reduced to its 21st century, sectarian essence. This is no run-of-the-mill battle of dictatorial oppressors against the generically oppressed. It’s infidels vs. true believers.

Once you’ve assigned the “infidel” label, an assignation too easily accommodated by Islam, it’s no quantum leap to dehumanize the other side. Hitler, of course, was a foremost exponent, but pathologic power was his only religion.

Islam, we are told, is a religion of peace.

Islam, we are not told, is too easily perverted and too susceptible to dividing the world into “believers” and “infidels.”

Once someone — say, a theatergoer, an actress, an airplane passenger, a bus rider, a restaurant patron, an office worker, a wedding-reception guest, a child — has been designated an “infidel,” that person is unfair game for the religious fanatic. Especially a zealot who has seethed too long in a culture more intent on avenging the Crusades than competing with the West.

The historic, geographic and geopolitical trappings may be different — as different as New York, Jerusalem, Bali and Moscow — but make no mistake. This is about Islam.

You better believe it.

Especially if you’re an “infidel.”

As bloody and harrowing as the hostage-taking in that Moscow theater was, the most chilling aspects were the Chechen threats made in pre-assault videotapes. They were delivered — disturbingly enough — to the Moscow bureau of al-Jazeera, the Muslim-friendly, Qatar-based news channel that often serves as an al-Qaida conduit.

First some background. Since it was conquered by czarist armies in 1859, Chechnya has smoldered under Russian rule. Dictator Josef Stalin deported many to their deaths during World War II. After a war in the mid 1990s, the breakaway republic in southern Russia gained de facto independence. Three years ago Russian troops re-entered in response, Russian leaders said, to rebel raids and bombings.

It’s your basic, intractable, sovereignty-and-freedom dilemma that has festered across the generations and cost countless lives. It is further fueled by religious affiliation. The population, approximately 1.2 million, is mostly Muslim.

For those who still harbor hopes that this increasingly polarized, terrorist-traipsing world is not a battle of civilizations and that it’s “not about Islam,” the Chechen videotape is required reviewing.

On one tape, a rebel acknowledged that the 50 or so Chechen hostage-takers, approximately half of whom were women, were on a “martyrdom operation.” To underscore their leverage, as well as a perverse sense of presumption, he said, “I swear by God we are more keen on dying than you are keen on living.”

On the other tape, five veiled women stood before a banner that proclaimed “God is Great” in Arabic. For the sake of argument, agreed. In fact, keen. But their point being? Could it be that nobody knows intractable sovereignty issues like Allah — especially after a century and a half to deliberate?

“We have chosen this path, the path of struggling for the freedom of the Chechen,” said one of the women. She then alarmingly added: “It makes no difference for us where we will die. We have chosen to die here, in Moscow, and we will take the lives of hundreds of the infidels with us.”

You knew it was coming.

This conflict — borne of subjugation and thwarted self-determination since the middle of the 19th century — has been reduced to its 21st century, sectarian essence. This is no run-of-the-mill battle of ideological, dictatorial oppressors against the generically oppressed. It’s infidels vs. true believers.

Once you’ve assigned the “infidel” label, an assignation too easily accommodated by Islam, it’s no quantum leap to dehumanize the other side. Hitler, of course, was a foremost exponent, but pathologic power was his only religion.

Islam, we are told, is a religion of peace.

Islam, we are not told, is too easily perverted and too susceptible to dividing the world into “believers” and “infidels.”

Once someone — say, a theatergoer, a thespian, an airplane passenger, a bus rider, a restaurant patron, an office worker, a wedding-reception guest, a child — has been designated an “infidel,” that person is fair game for the religious fanatic. Especially a zealot who has seethed too long in a culture more intent on revenging the Crusades than competing with the West.

The historic, geographic and geopolitical trappings may be different — as different as New York, Jerusalem, Bali and Moscow — but make no mistake. This is about Islam.

You better believe it.

Especially if you’re an “infidel.”

For many Americans Dick Clark is the guy who rocks in the New Year and obsesses over “bloopers.” For many others, he is the former host of Los Angeles-based “American Bandstand,” a Zelig-like survivor adapting to whatever music and fashion the culture can churn out. Still others see a septuagenarian teenager affably pitching “oldies” music.

And then there are those — speaking of “oldies” — for whom Dick Clark will always be a human time capsule. Forever encased with Clearasil, 45-rpm records, letter sweaters, transistor radios and slide rules.

Especially if you grew up in Philly, the birthplace of Bandstand (which relocated to L.A. in 1964). Especially if you actually appeared on Bandstand. And actually danced.

It all came flashing back two Sundays ago when I looked in on “American Dreams,” NBC’s new family drama set in Philadelphia in 1963. The main character, played convincingly and winsomely by Tampa actress Brittany Snow, is a 15 year old who becomes a “regular” on “American Bandstand.”

So there I was, barely an hour removed from watching the Bucs-Bengals blowout, mentally transported back to a cramped studio of Philadelphia’s ABC affiliate, WFIL. I was there with a couple of buddies. We were practically high school freshmen (eighth graders at St. Timothy’s Catholic School) and had one of those teacher-conference days off. We put on dress clothes, caught a bus and took the cross-town elevated train from Northeast to West Philly.

We lined up outside the studio, a nondescript building in a hardscrabble neighborhood, and hoped to look 14 — and make the cut. The regulars didn’t have to suffer such an indignity; they were ushered right in.

We all made it in and were directed to the bleacher seats. Along the way, there were hand-written signs cautioning the uninitiated: proper dress required; ID might be checked; gum-chewing, loud talking and camera hogging prohibited.

Some associate producer sort came out to reinforce the signage for the benefit of rookies and stressed the proper response to flashing applause signs. The regulars talked among themselves.

This guy’s message was clear: “Millions of kids across the country are tuning in — but not to watch you. They want to see Justine Carelli, Bob Clayton, Pat Moliteri, Carmen Jimenez, Kenny Rossi and Arlene Sullivan. If you must dance, stay with the flow and don’t look, let alone wave, at the camera. Try to look cool, even though you aren’t. Central Casting didn’t send you to us, but we still let you in; don’t make us throw you out. And welcome.”

I can still see Dick Clark as a Brillcremed 30-something standing, Oz-like, on a fruit crate behind that iconic Bandstand dais. For some reason I didn’t fathom someone that famous that short.

He seemed polite off camera and smooth on air. Introducing Bobby Freeman, lipsinging “Betty Lou’s Got A New Pair Of Shoes.” Giving the intro for a Clearasil commercial. Announcing a “Ladies’ Choice”: “A Million To One” by Little Jimmy Charles. Segueing into the “rate-a-record” segment where the litmus test of beat and dance-ability awaited new releases. Teasing Kenny and Arlene about their fan mail. Hyping the upcoming dance contest — the last vestiges of jitterbugging — to Chuck Berry’s “Rock ‘n Roll Music.”

For all of our usual hormonal bravado, truth be told, we just sat there — mesmerized by Justine and Arlene and all that you couldn’t see on a 12-inch Philco. How come nobody tripped on all those wires and cables? Didn’t those sets look cheesy in person? Wouldn’t you like to muss up Dick Clark’s hair? How come no one ever started a fight? Happens all the time at dances. Imagine that on live TV! Wow!

Then came the day’s second — and last — “Ladies’ Choice.” An assertive tap on the shoulder.

Who me? The almost ninth-grader with the impressive pompadour who was living a lie? The kid who would be clapping erasers tomorrow for Sister Charles Mary?

But, yo. Of course, me. Why wouldn’t she — and maybe Justine and Arlene as well — think I was quite the catch? Validation at almost 14.

She did most of the talking. She was from out of state and didn’t want to return to wherever that was without having at least danced once on Bandstand. But she was too nervous and plain looking, she felt, to ask a regular. But I looked “nice,” she said, which I interpreted as looking comparably nervous and plain-looking. That dance, to the strains of Tommy Edwards’ “It’s All In The Game,” lasted, it seemed, about an hour. We were each other’s rite-of-passage props. And I had to go to the bathroom.

Once in high school, however, we learned the truth about Bandstand. Pat Moliteri penned a piece in “Teen Magazine” that described how the “regulars” were despised by classmates for being “stuck up.” She said the show was known as “Fruit Stand.”

Soon after, we learned that the really cool DJs were on the radio, where they played Little Caesar and the Romans (“Those Oldies But Goodies”) and the Tuneweavers (“Happy, Happy Birthday, Baby”) — and never Pat Boone or Brenda Lee. Unlike Dick Clark, they could acknowledge that there was such a thing as “make-out” music and that a great place to hear continuous loops of doo-wop was down by the Delaware River, watching the “submarine races.”

Now I think back. There will always be that Bandstand moment. And Tommy Edwards was right. “Many a tear has to fall, but it’s all in the game.”

Jingoistic sound bites before an election are nothing new in American politics. We’re now seeing our share, although some Democrats still seemingly yearn for a Vietnam reprise, including a Hanoi Jane moment.

But even nostalgia for bygone Saigon days of protest doesn’t explain — let alone excuse — the unconscionable behavior recently displayed by two Democratic congressmen, former whip David E. Bonior of Michigan and Jim McDermott of Washington. They traveled to Baghdad and allowed themselves to be used as propaganda props by Saddam Hussein.

Seemingly playing Charlie McCarthy to Saddam’s Edgar Bergen, McDermott declaimed that “the president would mislead the American people” in order to get his war. However, “you have to take the Iraqis on their value, at their face value.”

Not even John Walker Lindh would have so spoken. Nor Jane Fonda.

McDermott and Bonior have the right — obligation even — to speak out against what is the Administration’s unilateral, high-handed Iraqi policy. There’s no lack of rationales or domestic forums for such stands.

But you don’t take that stand in Baghdad. Even if you think you can co-opt a wag-the-dog scenario. Even if you’re promised a sleepover at the Presidential Palace of your choice. You don’t do your dissenting in the downtown of a dictator. This isn’t lobbying for peace; it’s aiding and abetting.

And isn’t that Jesse Jackson’s job?

For some time, it’s been manifestly obvious that South Florida isn’t yet ready for prime time, meaningful democracy. Perhaps Haiti should be the model until Broward and Dade-Miami counties are comfortable with the nuances of the home-grown version. Like voting and vote-counting.

But now, long after we’ve sworn we’ve seen it all from that electoral abyss, we’re seeing more absurdity. Black leaders in Broward have been rallying behind Elections Supervisor Miriam Oliphant, the poster pol for incompetence and arrogance. Obviously of more relevance, however, is that she is the only county-wide black elected official.

Black leaders have claimed that calls for her removal are racially motivated. Ironically, Gov. Jeb Bush probably would have removed her had she NOT been black. He knew a blacklash would result. One resulted anyhow.

The publisher of a black-oriented weekly newspaper called the frenzy over Oliphant’s role in the primary debacle a “modern day lynching.”

U.S Rep. Alcee Hastings, D-Miramar, noted that to his knowledge Oliphant hadn’t done “anything illegal, immoral or unethical.” He’s probably right unless you consider paying Oliphant $122,446 a year highway robbery.

But the issue is incompetence. It’s that black and white. You can only blame so much on racism and redistricting.

And for those in the know, none of this was altogether shocking. Her election two years ago was notable for its racial precedent, not electorate savvy. She trashed her predecessor, a 30-year veteran, and lost the loyalty of staffers and volunteers. She fired anyone who knew what they were doing.

She then scrambled to hire the less experienced, less competent and less punctual — some of them cronies. She got what she — but not the voters — deserved. Chaos.

Poorly trained poll workers took too long to start touch-screen machines. They compounded this by keeping polls closed until the machines were ready, neglecting to offer voters a paper ballot. At day’s end, they didn’t properly harvest the votes.

And then there were poll workers who didn’t screw up because they never showed up. Some 300 of them. And a bunch who refused to work late after Bush was forced to extend voting hours.

Then the criticism.

Then calls to the Rev. Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson to help rally support for Oliphant.

As it turns out, however, a last-minute compromise has been reached in which Oliphant signed a contract ceding virtually all control over her office to someone else. To the person, ironically enough, who used to run the office’s day-to-day operations under Oliphant’s predecessor.

The deal leaves Oliphant with another precedent to her credit. She now gets $122,446 for doing virtually nothing.

Suppose anyone would want to rail — or maybe rally — against that? Meanwhile, Sharpton and Jackson can devote more time to inciting political correctness over the movie Barbershop .

But this just in.

Andy Ingraham, president of Sharpton’s National Action Network in Florida, does have a problem with this scenario. “She’s abdicating all of her power,” said Ingraham. “To me, it is a modern-day coup d’etat .”

Perhaps the Haitian model would apply.

Don’t get me wrong. I can be as jingoistic as the next guy. I’ll be among the thousands on Bayshore Boulevard Wednesday morning. I’ll be there with a flag, a ladder and a camera. I want to be part of something good that comes out of something evil. I also want to update my seared consciousness with united-we-stand images.

But the media-led, societal countdown to Sept. 11 — and all of the planned remembrances for that day — may be so much more than we need right now. It’s the patriotic counterpart of media drum beating for hurricane season. It’s important; it’s necessary; it’s just overdone.

In the name of good taste, it mustn’t be festive. In the name of good mental health, it must be more than a haunting memory of America under attack and a solemn eulogy to the fallen.

Here is a modest suggestion. It’s offered in the good name of remembering victims and heroes, recalling who and what we are, and reaffirming why we must win the war against Islamic extremism.

Wouldn’t it be fitting if, at 8:46 a.m. — when American Flight 11 crashed into the World Trade Center north tower — every church, mosque and synagogue with a bell would ring it? It would call all Americans to a collective, reflective moment. And it would do so inclusively. No hyphens allowed.

It would remind us — regardless of where we are and what we’re doing — to stop and reflect. And remember what we all lost; what we still have; and why we fight to keep it.

Stopped at a red light? Smile and nod to the motorist next to you. At the office? Extend a hand or give a hug. At home? Kiss the kids again.

It wouldn’t be a spectacle and wouldn’t require choreography. And that’s the point.

I never thought I’d find myself saying this: NASCAR could teach us all a thing or two. Let me back up for some frame of reference, but stay with me on this.

NASCAR was pretty much an alien concept for someone growing up in Philadelphia, the home of Doo-Wop, Bandstand, Chubby Checker and cheese steaks, as well as the Phillies, Eagles and 76’ers. Not to be confused, of course, with Country & Western, The Grand ‘Ol Opry, Porter Waggoner and grits, as well as the Winston Cup. Tracks were for horses and the Penn Relays.

Sports meant real athletes, those who ran and jumped, blocked and tackled, and threw and hit. Driving, no matter the vehicle, speed, distance or conditions, didn’t count. Everyone drove; precious few could hit the curve, elude an NFL linebacker or drain a perimeter jump shot with a man in your face. Auto racing was as foreign as curling, only less interesting.

While today I can marvel at pit-stop teamwork and the reflexes and nerve of the drivers, I still don’t get anything else about the sport. The numbing noise, the motorized monotony, the human billboards. Then there are the crashes, near-crashes and occasional fatalities. They’re not my adrenaline rush hours.

But you know what? The major professional team sports today — baseball, football and basketball — could learn a lot from NASCAR.

There’s a cultural connect that’s obvious between drivers and fans. Loyalty is not something you only owe your posse. You don’t have to love the sport to respect the relationship between celebrity drivers and their fans. Good ol’ boys and their families watching other good ol’ boys race.

However much their fame and fortune, the drivers know that without sponsors and fans they’re stuck in real jobs. So they sign the autographs; they do the interviews; they show for promotions; they banter; they hang out; they give back. Some things you just can’t fake. They let other sports monopolize drug busts, pregnant girl-friend assaults, bad tattoos and arrogant attitudes.

No sport does a better job of marketing to — nor respecting — its fan base than NASCAR. Drivers have agents and attorneys too, but they don’t get in the way of fan identification.

Baseball, as it approaches another strike deadline, couldn’t be a bigger contrast. What was once the national pastime is now well passed its time; more of a sleazy family feud among millionaires. To the eroding fan base that still cares more about pennant races and individual records than small-market scenarios and steroid-stoked stats, baseball responds with a nose-thumbing.

The message from baseball would seem to be: “How can we respect anyone who doesn’t see us for what we are — a competitive sham borne of owner egos and stupidity perfectly complemented by player greed and arrogance?”

Then there’s the lesson to be learned by the no-show fiasco that was the recent Shaquille O’Neal Celebrity Lost Weekend. Whatever the final cover story — beyond indifference and incompetence — the effect was this: too many kids had to learn the hard way what it’s like being treated like a pro sports fan.

Maybe it’s good they find out now. If the result would be fewer sycophantic, hero-worshipping, autograph-beseeching, lemming-like pro sports fans, it would be worth it.

Let’s just enjoy this while we can. The rescue of the coal miners, that is.

Not only was there the gripping, melodramatic matter of pulling nine people from the all-but-clenched jaws of death, but the timing couldn’t have been more propitious. Not with homeland insecurity, stock market trauma, kidnapped children and Middle East carnage otherwise dominating the news.

The Pennsylvania rescue was much more than a happy ending to a harrowing tale.

The Quecreek Mine drama embodied so much of the human spirit that we so easily take for granted in a world too mindful of mankind’s dark side. These were men who had made up their collective minds to either live or die as a group. Clutching their faith and exercising presence of mind, they literally bundled together for warmth and survival. In the event of death, which loomed likely, the men had written private messages to their families and put them in a lunch pail: a legacy to what matters most.

No less impressive was the fortitude and technological know-how of the rescue workers. It was a dramatic, 77-hour reminder of the ingenuity and can-do ethic that has always been synonymous with the American spirit.

Also associated with America is media overkill. It turns people into public and private property. Andy Warhol talked of 15 minutes of fame. Would-be agents look for far longer shelf life.

Geraldo and Donahue have already had their dibs. Letterman and Leno are lining up. The feeding frenzy for the “Somerset 9” has only begun. There are rights to be secured for a made-for-TV movie. Book scenarios will be in the mix. Endorsements — think the Skoal folks aren’t salivating over this one? — could loom. That’s life, of course, as a commodity.

Not all miner-survivors will be equally photogenic or articulate. Some will have opportunities outside the mines. Others, when their celebrity status wanes, may have to return to their sub-strata culture.

For now, however, let’s just revel with a cause and enjoy this for as long as it is what it is: a celebration of life against some really long odds.