Hillary is the presumed heir to her husband's political legacy. She was by his side for six terms as Governor of Arkansas and we all remember the "two-for-one" deal we got when he ascended to the White House.
After a bumpy start including the travel agent fiasco, the larger and more expensive National Health Care fiasco, and the suicide of their friend, Vince Foster, his wife moved to the background. But Monica put the spotlight back on Hillary and she took the bit and ran with it. She is superb in that role; invoking sympathy is her strong suit. And now we are being asked to elevate Mrs. Clinton to the same job held by her husband. Ask yourself this: Could my spouse do my job?
But her qualifications are incidental, for we all can think of similar situations where underlings were promoted to the big chair simply because they were there--they served their time and were assumed to have earned the right to step into the leader's role: Chairman, President, Head Coach, Pope, whatever the institution, the right of passage is a human trait.
I suggest that whatever your persuasion, Bill Clinton's Presidency, will not go down in history as a bad one. He may be forgotten or he may be remembered for Monica, but with a strong economic tail wind at his back and no major wars on his watch, I don't think he will be remembered as a bad steward. But that is not the stuff of history. And so, despite Hillary's tenuous connection to anything meaningful, the field is weak; the Democrats may be stuck with Bill Clinton's wife.
So lets look at at some of those "chair in waiting" transitions. The list below is not weighted or rated, but simply my memory of some of the great leaders of my lifetime that were followed by successors-in-waiting. Your list, no doubt, will be different. Note: These are people who ran things not people who led causes, e.g., Ghandi, Mandela, Martin Luther King, etc.
1. Ronald Reagan
2. Red Auerbach
3. Winston Churchill
4. John Wooden
5. Mary Kay Ash
6. Vince Lombardi
7. Abraham Lincoln
8. Michael Dell
9. Paul "Bear" Bryant
10.John Paul II
Do you know who followed them? I didn't. I had to look up half of them, which led me to write this. (See answers below.)
Now, I wouldn't put Bill Clinton on this list, but what else do we credit Hillary with other than being his wife. A Senator? But even if qualified to be a Senator from NY, what experience does that bring to the table; managing a Senate staff? What's that, fifty people?
The Republican Party has dug itself a big hole, but they may be outdone by the Dems. Hillary would cause the biggest Republican turnout in history. I live in three states; I'd vote in all of them.
Answers:
1. Ronald Reagan: OK, this one is easy, but Reagan to "read my lips" Bush is the perfect example. The first George inherited Reagan's third term. He couldn't keep it.
2. Red Auerbach: Bill Russell assumed the mantle and immediately lost the world championship.
3. Winston Churchill: Clement Atlee, Churchill's Deputy Prime Minister, displaced Churchill in 1945. 6 years later, the Brits returned Churchill to office.
4. John Wooden: Gene Bartow. Gene who? He lasted 2 seasons.
5. Mary Kay Ash: I have no idea who succeeded her. Do you?
6. Vince Lombardi: Phil Bengtson. Phil who? He lasted 2 seasons.
7. Abraham Lincoln: Not a voluntary hand-off, but Andrew Johnson WAS Lincoln's VP. Impeached.
8. Michael Dell: Forced back in the chair after a failed hand-off to Kevin Rollins.
9. Paul "Bear" Bryant: Ray Perkins resigned after 4 seasons. Pressure.
10. John Paul II: Herr Benedict II. Now we have the rigid doctrine without the charisma.
Georgie died yesterday. He was only 7 years old. And his sister, Martha died last year when she was only 6. They died from different causes, but I fear that high breeding had something to do with their premature deaths.
George and Martha were Maine Coon cats; siblings from the same litter, but different as night and day. Martha was the alpha cat; a pushy but lovable bitch who performed only in the center ring—she was the Queen. Her nickname was Queenie.
Martha was the first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning, because minutes before the alarm went off, she would camp near the bed, staring at me, waiting for the radio to come on—or for my eyelids to open; either event would set her off. Then she would MEOOOWWW for attention and head for the kitchen counter and the treat jar. If I didn’t follow immediately she would retrace her steps and MEOOOWWW again, “C’mon Marvin, I’m hungry.” This was every day—no holidays for the Queen’s staff.
George was the opposite; he was laid back and very, very lovable. Malleable is a word that comes to mind.; you could handle him like play dough. And he was the prettiest cat I ever saw. He was cordovan colored with streaks of black, and he had long pointed ears like a bobcat. He was wild looking. And beautiful.
Georgie was Annice’s alarm clock. He slept in the bed with her, and like his sister, he had a morning routine. Minutes before the alarm went off, he would perch on Annice’s chest, nose to nose with her face, and then he would bump her chin with his chin until she opened her eyes.
Two personal alarm clocks. What more could one ask for?
They were siblings and yet very different. Martha loved to be brushed; Georgie liked to be massaged. He loved for me to rub his back—and his stomach. And if I quit too soon he would head-butt me until I resumed the treatment.
Martha was pushy and demanding; Georgie was tolerant and forgiving. But both were needy in their own way. Sweet is how I would describe George. We joked that there must have been a mix-up at the breeder and he was probably the girl.
I miss them more than I can express, but my sadness is overshadowed by Annice’s grief. I was out of town when Georgie died and Annice called about midnight to tell me what happened. I cannot get her awful wailing voice out of my mind; it was the most helpless forlorn sound I’ve ever heard. Later she told me she loved them more than any pets she’s ever had. She didn’t need to explain.
We have fuzzy colored balls all over the house for the cats to play with. The other cats (we have four) mostly ignore them, but Georgie considered them prize prey and green was his favorite color. Loud chirps announced his hunting trips as he proudly paraded through the house with the latest kill. The House is no longer safe from green balls.
I'm a old man and one of the joys of my life has been to admire women's bodies. Women are packed with visual stimulants; and any one of them--or all of them--can turn a man into a helpless puppy, panting and begging for attention. It might be her face, her smile, her hair, her breasts, her legs, her rear-end, or simply the way she carries herself that grabs our attention, but for a man it is the visual aid that stokes the fire. Later it might be her personality that captures our heart, but initially it is the image that grabs our groin. Most women appreciate the attention of men and they dress to accentuate their charms. Why else would the fashion and cosmetics industries exist? But other women resent the stares of men and consider them a violation of their space.
My space was violated yesterday--and before that a similar violation occurred a couple of weeks ago. The back-to-back intrusions (assaults?) made me think about how lucky we guys have it. Our plumbing is pretty basic and requires little maintenance--until we achieve "senior" status. Then the doctors poke and probe our bodies as they have women's bodies since the day they had their first menstrual event. But women have an advantage; they have more orifices, and therefore more entry points. We only have one--our asshole. Yesterday my urologist inserted his exceptionally long finger into my asshole (it felt like his arm was up there) and poked and probed my prostate gland. When he removed his finger (and arm?) from my asshole, I could feel the lubricant residue squishing between my cheeks. He airily waved a box of tissues in front of me and I meekly took one and wiped my ass. The foreign substance in my crack made me wonder if that was how a woman feels after a man deposits his semen in her vagina.
A couple of weeks ago, it was worse. My asshole was forced wide open by the air gun that blew up my intestinal tunnel to the size of a hot-air balloon so the doctor could get a birds-eye view of my colon. Thankfully they put me to sleep for that. But the prep work was not a picnic. The night before I swallowed and drank a concoction of pills and liquids that turned my gut into a war zone. Everything erupted at once and I pictured two armies going at each other with heavy artillery. Boom...boom...boom...it was not pretty.
And so there you have it. A young man enjoys a life of visual stimulation, the object commonly the body of a beautiful woman, and the most alluring feature often being her ass.
An old man dreams of times gone by as the medical technician probes his ass.
I watched an NFL football game last night. It was played in Philadelphia and it was broadcast on national TV, but the game was incidental; the star of the show was Rocky. Sylvester Stallone was all over the place; on the sidelines before the game and in the broadcast booth during the game, and everyone within shouting distance wanted their "Yo" moment. They love Rocky in South Philly.
Rocky is a big deal in Philadelphia--except in that rarified world of locked jaws and hyphenated names that rule the city's arts community. The Philadelphia art mavens view Rocky's statue like a boil, and years ago they banned it from the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum where it attracted more interest than the exhibits inside the museum. A museum which over the years has been forced to close its doors on certain days for lack of funds to pay the poor security guards.
Rocky was shuttled off to the sports complex in South Philly, and the art mavens thought, that was that. But the public clamored for Rocky's return and after much pressure and wringing of silk hankies, he was allowed to return to the Art Museum area, but not to his old home atop the steps. Rocky was planted on the side of the building, discreetly away from the main entrance, and presumably away from the windows of the curator and her smug accomplices inside that blue-blooded palace of privilege.
Never-the-less as ESPN reminded us last night, you can't keep a good man down--even on the Main Line.
Sylvester Stallone is as far removed from Philadelphia's snooty art denizens as Albert Barnes was in his time. Dr. Barnes despised the exclusive, condescending ways of Philadelphia's coupon-clipping arts crowd and he was careful to remain apart from that world even as he prepared to enter the next world. Dr. Barnes left very careful instructions in his will about what to do and what not to do with his incomparably valuable collection and he left an estate to finance that gift.
Of course you know the rest of the story. At the same time as the Philadelphia arts community was banning Rocky from the steps of the Art Museum, apparently they were planning to hijack the Barnes Foundation. And they did! Now they are building a new palace across the street from the Art Museum to house the Barnes Collection.
May the shadow of Rocky darken its doors.
I read the following stories within minutes of each other.
Bush Accepts Bolton's U.N. Resignation
Dec 04 11:18 AM US/Eastern
Unable to win Senate confirmation, U.N. Ambassador John Bolton will step down when his temporary appointment expires within weeks, the White House said Monday.
Congress open to passing bill on immigration
By Charles Hurt
THE WASHINGTON TIMES
December 4, 2006
Congress will approve an immigration bill that will grant citizenship rights to most of the 12 million to 20 million illegal aliens in the U.S. after Democrats take control next month, predict both sides on Capitol Hill.
My take: The new Congress-in-waiting is repelled by a U.N. Ambassador who, as best I can tell, gets along pretty well with his peers, and who has done a reasonably good job of representing a country that is out of step with most its peers, U.N. members.
Meanwhile, that same Congress will welcome with open arms 12-20 million people who broke the law to get here; and who leap-frogged over every law abiding immigrant standing in line to become a U.S. citizen.
We have lost our way.
Why is bad news more interesting than good news? The local TV news is about fires, rapes and murders—and weather. Have you ever seen anything on a local TV newscast but disasters, criminal events, and weather? (Some would classify weather forecasting as a criminal event.)
And newspapers are no more cheerful. But I’ll cut newspapers some slack on the weather. Your house could blow away before the newspaper arrives, and so we don’t pay much attention to weather reports in the newspaper. But newspapers print the same dreadful news, along with the national dreads, which local TV rarely mentions (the local dreads, the weather and the commercials don’t leave much time for national news on Channel X).
The daily newspaper national news usually includes a mix of sports, business and politics from Washington, London, Sri Lanka, Sao Paolo, and other places we can’t pronounce or locate on a map. Of course if your newspaper is a weekly, the weather section is ludicrous. But weekly newspapers have an especially sobering section that warrants extra space—the obituaries.
We don't pay enough attention to the good stuff. And so, I put together a sampling of news that I think should merit attention. These are listed in no particular order; simply as they fell from my still functioning, 67 year-old, non-Alzheimer affected brain.
Dateline: Durham, NC. "The Duke University Lacrosse team had a 100% graduation rate this year." It's true. Did you know that? We hear a lot about dumb jocks that can’t get to the verb, but not much about student-athletes who go to class, study, and earn a diploma. The Duke Lacrosse Team's academic achievements will be good news for some, but bad news for others; depending on their persuasion about that dreadful event with the dancer.
Dateline: Washington, DC: The National Center for Health Statistics: "In 2002, 2.6 million babies were born to parents with a marriage contract." The report said that another 1.4 million children were born out of wedlock that year. (And 1.4 million were killed in the womb.) Why don’t we celebrate parents who don't kill their babies? I don't care if they have a marriage contract; although I wonder why one would bring a child into this world without a social and legal umbrella. Note: 2002 is the most recent period I could find statistics for. Maybe it's better now.
Dateline: Atlantic City, NJ: "Last night, in Atlantic City, Bill Cosby held forth with two hours of non-profanity laced stories. They were rolling in the aisles." Mr. Cosby is dealing with his own set of dreads at the moment, but we should not forget the wholesome humor he has entertained us with for decades. He is a funny man and he does it without four-letter words.
Dateline: Philadelphia, PA. "Not one Philadelphia city official was indicted yesterday." (OK, I made this one up, but I'm sure there were a few days in the recent past when that statement would have been true.) Unless you live in Philadelphia, you cannot appreciate what a joyous reception that headline would receive. Of course, no one would believe it. Maybe they could run it in the funnies section.
Enough. I don't purposefully watch the local news on TV, but occasionally it drifts into my space, and without exception, I am amazed at the negative content. Maybe I should say the continuity, for it never changes: fires, rapes and murders. Local newspapers are no different; they too headline the dreads.
But the dreads can mean different things to different people. For some, they can be happy events, in a perverse sort of way. Take the NY Times for example. A few weeks ago a low level White House official was convicted of something to do with the Jack Abramoff scandal. You know the guy in Washington who bought off some Republican Congressmen? (They don't tell us that he bought off some Democrats, too.) Anyway this low level White House official got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or his ass in a G-5, I'm not sure what. I had never heard of him before that event, and I can't remember his name now. I'm sure you can't either. And that's my point. The NY Times had this poor slob's color photo ON THE FRONT PAGE ABOVE THE FOLD, a space normally reserved for stock market crashes, declarations of war, and the death of world leaders. So much for objectivity in the newsroom. I assume this sad event was a happy one for The New York Times. (I'm not taking sides; I could pull a similar story from Fox News.)
This is one--but only one--of the reasons TV, newspapers, and news magazines are threatened. Not because they are partisan, but because they attempt to hide it. The Internet is a refreshing change. Amateur news on the web is unabashedly awash with opinions, and it is delivered head-on, not cloaked in oblique language. It comes from the bottom up, not top down from the editor's desks of the establishment news industry. And it is delivered in real time, not shackled to the 6:00 newscast, or the lumbering printing press.
The rise of the Internet and specifically the blogging format will surely go down as one of the most important events in news gathering history; perhaps all of history. It has liberated thought. Expression is unstructured, even out of control at times; uncontrollable might be a better description. But this medium has revealed some very good thinkers--and exceptional writers. And it has shrunk the world like nothing else in history. The establishment should be worried.
That is the good news.
Remember the old phone company? That would be pre-1984 when we had only one choice for telephone service, and for most of us that choice was the local Bell operating company; Bell of Pennsylvania, Illinois Bell, Southwestern Bell, blah, blah, blah.
Back then, the telephone and the telephone company were one in the same. Some of us still rented our phones from the telephone company, but regardless of whether we rented or purchased the handset, we gave no thought to the instrument or the service. You know why? Because they worked--all of the time. "Five 9's" the engineers dubbed it, which meant the telephone network was designed to work 99.999% of the time. And it did. Not sexy, and not mobile, but very reliable.
Fast-forward 22 years. I'm writing this note from a house in Chesterbrook PA., 4 miles from the largest shopping center in America. The house is 150 yards from the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and it is surrounded by an office park that houses some of the largest drug companies in the world, and a colossal family of mutual funds, all household names. And because of this concentration of high-tech commerce, there may be more T-1 lines running under this house than tree roots. You get the picture? This is not a remote outpost. And yet, I have to walk outside to use my Sprint cellular phone for it will not pickup a signal inside the house (and often not when I’m outside the house). For some unexplainable reason, Sprint overlooked Chesterbrook , PA, a residential community with prices ranging from the mid hundreds of thousands to the low millions, and I must roam on another cellular carrier's network to use my mobile phone.
The Chesterbrook streets and landscaping are torn up now, because Verizon is installing a new hoop-tee-doo Optical Fiber network, that will carry not only telephone conversations, but hi-speed internet access, hi-definition television programming, on-demand movies, and a new telephone service called VoIP. VoIP stands for Voice over Internet Protocol which for us non-techies simply means the old copper wire telephone network that performed flawlessly (remember Five 9s?) for about 150 years, give or take a decade or two, is about to become history.
FTTH, Verizon calls it, which is shorthand for "Fiber-To-The-House." (They don't talk about what you do with it inside the house; they only bring it TO the house.) But fiber is fast and they say we will be able to download movies and games and all kinds of stuff that will transform our lives and cement our butts to the couch for even longer periods of time. And to make sure that we remain on the couch, the telephone company will display incoming calls on the TV. Wow!
Unless, of course, you live in that outback called Chesterbrook, PA and subscribe to Sprint PCS cellular service. In that case, pray that you have a digital video recorder that can play back the hi-definition video segment that you missed while you were outside on the phone.