Bob Dole: All or Nothing

Bruce Herschensohn, one of the last who opposed resignation, turned and said to no one in particular, "That's probably the real Nixon. It's a shame he couldn't have been like that more often."

That is from the eerie last pages of The Final Days, the controversial chronicle of Richard Nixon's demise. God knows if this actually happened considering that the book was written, for the most part, by that master dramatist, Bob Woodward, of Watergate/Washington Post/Deep Throat fame. Yet anyone who has seen video footage of Nixon's final farewell to his staff on the morning of his departure from the White House, can understand the sentiment reflected in this passage. For once in his life, the stiff, abrasive Nixon gave way to a gentler, kinder Nixon, to borrow a phrase. So it was deja vu when Bob Dole announced his resignation from the Senate - totally and completely - in order to spend his every waking hour pursuing the Holy Grail which has eluded him for so many years now....the Presidency - The White House - The Big Chair - The Whole Enchilada.

For once in his life, Bob Dole was human, too, and it couldn't have come at a better time.

He was emotional, yet never lost his composure as he did at Nixon's funeral. As Nixon himself said on the morning of August 9, 1974, in front of his staff, "it is a new beginning always." And this was one hell of a new beginning for Battling Bob; one of those high moments in the sport of politics that transcends party affiliation and leaves one relieved to be an American and have the opportunity to even witness such an event. These kinds of things don't happen too often in China, and they probably seldom happened in the days of Brezhnev. Dole was humbled (for a politician) and sounded, for a change, like he wanted to win for the sake of the American people, and not for himself.

It was also a brilliant strategic move; in considering what he must do to have a shot at winning this election, Dole broke free from the tainted chains of Newt Gingrich.

The tragedy here is that this brief seven minutes of some of the best political oration I've ever heard won't save Bob Dole was being beaten badly come November, as he is sent without grace and with no mercy into retirement. This country has already forgotten the Fighting Newt of a mere eighteen months ago; don't expect them to remember Battling Bob's Senate Resignation Speech, especially amid a fresh load of that infamous Dole rancor - which is sure to come - six months after the fact.

Jessica Dubroff Takes Flight

There are a whole lot of folks feeling sad about the fiery death of Jessica Dubroff, the 7-year-old "pilot" who was dealt a tragic blow by being genetically linked to a pair of history's biggest lamebrains - her parents. Much to the amazement of my more sensitive acquaintances, however, I'm not one of those who shed even crocodile tears when I'd heard that Jessica, her dimwit father, and her equally dimwitted flight instructor went down in flames this week when they attempted to put the girl in the record books as the youngest person to fly across the country.

No, I'm not sad. I'm enraged! Though not at the child. How could I be? She wasn't in on the decision! It's safe to say that, like most kids her age, she's not even capable of the reasoning required to make such a decision. I'm enraged at the selfishness that must exist in the evil souls of those who might make such a decision for her. It's safe to say that she had no idea of the danger her parents and her flying teacher were putting her in by making such a decision. However, there is a more important reason for being angry about this event.

* * * * *

Of course, the columnists are having a field day.

Some blamed the intense pressure put on kids by their peers ("society") as others - such as that bonehead from the University of Illinois at Chicago (Tolan, I think was the name) - questioned just how far parents should push their kids. Here's an answer: If we push them at all, limit this "encouragement" to the confines of keeping others safe. Right. How about blaming this tragedy on the intense neglect for mature decision making, vis-a-vis the general disregard for the physical society around us? (A disregard which more greatly permeates our society as never before.) What if she'd crashed in a residential area, taking out hundreds of other lives, as well?

I've been shocked that but one journalist - the Chicago Tribune's Clarence Page - mentioned this point, as they've all been occupied with the welfare of the little girl and her two stupid parents. To hell with the parents; I say it's too bad her mother wasn't up there with them!

* * * * *

I once heard a professional pilot state that he didn't worry much about amateur pilots - "they don't last too long."

Indeed, such commentary is only natural, considering how such an act by a mere child wrongly diminishes the accomplishments of professional pilots everywhere. Flying an airplane is not child’s play - it's serious business. I suppose this incident proves that not everyone can do it after all. And that Jessica Dubroff was not the "remarkable child" the world thought she was.

The Million Man March and the Madman Who Led Them to Washington

I will take my stand to watch, and station myself on the tower, and look forth to see what he will say to me, and what I will answer concerning my complaint. And the Lord answered me: "Write the vision; make it plain upon tablets, so he may run who reads it. For still the vision awaits its time; it hastens to the end - it will not lie. If it seem slow, wait for it; it will surely come, it will not delay. Behold, he whose soul is not upright in him shall fail, but the righteous shall live by his faith."
- Habakkuk 2:1-4

For reasons that are inconsequential at this time, I happened upon the book of Habakkuk from the Old Testament about a week before the event that was billed as the Million Man March. It really struck a chord; I could relate to the prophet Habakkuk and his anger over the prosperity being enjoyed by the wicked, insincere leaders of his day (around 600 BC) at the expense of these leaders' more righteous followers.

My first thought was "That's Louis Farrakhan!" My passages lend an eerie relativity to last weekend's frolicking on The Mall. In fact, verses 7-19 of chapter 2 seem to speak directly to or of Farrakhan himself:

Will not your debtors suddenly arise, and those awake who will make you tremble? Then you will be booty for them. Because you have plundered many nations, all the remnant of the peoples shall plunder you, for the blood of men and violence to the earth, to cities and all who dwell therein. Woe to him who gets evil gain for his house, to set his nest on high, to be safe from the reach of harm! You have devised shame to your house by cutting off many people; you have forfeited your life. For the stone will cry out from the wall, and the beam from the woodwork respond. Woe to him who builds a town with blood, and founds a city on iniquity! Behold, is it not from the Lord of host that people labor only for fire, and nations weary themselves for nought? For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea. Woe to him who makes his neighbors drink of the cup of his wrath and makes them drink, to gaze on their shame! You will be sated with contempt instead of glory. Drink, yourself, and stagger! The cup in the Lord's right hand will come around to you, and shame will come upon your glory!

You get the idea.... such a warning, yet so many followed. And why not? They've had no place else to go and it is, indeed, a sad state of affairs in America, as former Virginia governor Doug Wilder said, when the only "leader" your average throng of blacks has to turn to is a venom-spewing con-man who represents every ounce of injustice against which Black America has spent its 130-plus years of freedom railing against. Yes, it's sad that they just couldn't do it on their own; they've had more than 30 years – since Martin Luther King's speech in 1963 to get their shit together, but they couldn't find the mirror until one was held up in front of them.

* * * * *

It's a shame that so many of the participants willingly confirmed the message while condemning the messenger. Well, gang, that does not excuse what each and every attendee contributed to the legitimizing of Louis Farrakhan. Yes, this was definitely his party. And it's continued to be his party, as he has gained further exposure with his "lawsuit;" a joke that would have been comical had it not been so misguided. Think about this: Farrakhan filed a lawsuit against the Washington DC Parks Service for miscounting the number of attendees. The punch line is not difficult to figure out: The good minister has neglected to recall - if, due to the confines of his own private, demented world, he ever knew - that, on a local level, Washington DC is a city managed by blacks, from the mayor's office, down.

Anyhow, it's been a week now since the march took place; and three days since I completed my own lonely march. I waited purposely for three days after Farrakhan's little sit-in to hold my own gathering. This was, of course, as a nod to Christ's rebirth on the Third Day. What with Farrakhan's supposed background, I'm desperately trying to get into the whole religious aspect of the thing. And I figured that the spirit and will and fire which had been sucked out of the bellies of the one group of people who have single-handedly kept the black community from totally disintegrating in the past three decades, might be restored - resurrected, if you will - via my own shindig. I'm speaking, of course, of America's black women. Though they were invited to my march, they didn't show, which made for a lonely walk from the steps of Congress to the Lincoln Memorial. Obviously, unlike Louis, I needed greater name recognition. I wonder what the reaction of the country might be were I to have had David Duke call for all white men to gather on the Mall for mass atonement for all those bad things they've said and done in the past. Who could complain, given what transpired on that same hallowed ground just one week ago?

Right. So, needless to say, I wasn't invited to this affair. I considered crashing the thing, but those guards that Farrakhan surrounded himself with scared the hell out of me. The outbreak of violence would not have been difficult to predict had some mouthy, white reporter from Chicago come strolling into this very private affair. And I wanted no part of that. Despite my own personal reputation for violence, I really don't like it at all. I don't even care to view it on television. But for those who made the trip, I give them credit, as they really had no reason for being there. For the most part, I would guess that those who did show their faces are respectful of their wives, earn a living and teach their kids manners. No, the ones who needed to show are the fourteen-year-olds playing with guns down at Cabrini Green in Chicago.

* * * * *

The question – to what degree will this event impact the present and be remembered in the future? The answer is Barely Any and Even Less. In an age in which news and entertainment have become intermeshed to the point of confusion, it's easy to separate the 1963 march led by Martin Luther King as news, and therefore, history, and the Farrakhan Debacle as one man's own soon to be forgotten PR ploy de jour.

And what will become of the temporarily mainstream Louis Farrakhan? Well, it's damn near a sure bet that his fate lies in the words of the obscure book of Habakkuk, however deep in the magma of the language one must dig to yank, from the darkness into the light of day, the Truth. Yes, that one may be a little difficult for the faint of heart to decipher. However, in an old rock and roll song performed by guitarist Ritchie Blackmore's creation, Rainbow, the fate of Farrakhan is made brutally clear.

During those Rainbow years, the late '70s, Blackmore's singer was a dwarf by the name of Ronnie James Dio who today stands tall as one of the genre's most honest, most prophetic lyricists. Digest the accompanying words of doom and truth from a tune called "Stargazer," and consider for yourself that, indeed, his time has come. Then, in the direct and blinding light of last week's events, read Dio's words again, and find solace in the fact that Louis Farrakhan may one day go the way of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI.

High noon, oh I'd sell my soul for water,
Nine years worth of breaking my back,
There's no sun in the shadow of the wizard,
See how he glides, why he's lighter than air.
Oh I see his face!

Hot wind, moving fast across the desert.
We feel that our time has arrived.
The world spins, while we put his dream together.
A tower of stone to take him straight to the sky.
Oh I see his face!

Where is your star? Is it far, is it far, is it far.
When do we leave? I believe, I believe, I believe.

All eyes see the figure of the wizard,
As he climbs to the top of the world.
No sound, as he falls instead of rising,
Time standing still, then there's blood on the sand.
Oh I see his face!

Where was your star? Was it far, was it far, was it far.
When did we leave? I believed, I believed, I believed.

In the heat and the rain,
With whips and chains,
To see him fly,
So many die.
We built a tower of stone,
With our flesh and bone.
To see him fly,
But we don't know why,
Now, where do we go.

* * * * *

"The righteous rise with burning eyes of hatred and ill-will.
Madmen fed on fear and lies to beat, and burn and kill."
- Anonymous

Oklahoma City is not OK.

TELEGRAM – April 19, 1995, 9:30 a.m.
TO:  Nort Johnson, Publisher & Editor, Showcase Chicago
FR:  Mad Bomber
RE:  OK City
CANCELING WACO. STOP. EXECUTING U-TURN FOR OK CITY PER NEWS REPORTS. STOP. PHONE ON ARRIVAL / FOUR HOURS. STOP. NEW STORY OR SAME OLD STORY? STOP. WIRE CASH AGREED TO DOWNTOWN OK CITY W.U. OFFICE. STOP. HERE WE GO AGAIN.

* * *

 "I shouted out 'who killed the Kennedys' - when after all, it was you and me."

-          Sympathy For The Devil

The "Welcome to Waco" sign came into view as I ejected the Stevie Ray Vaughan tape playing in the massive, '70's-era Pioneer cassette deck hanging under the dash of the Buick. It's one of those component players that requires an external amplifier to make any noise. I've got a 40-watter hooked up, pushing a pair of old boxed triaxial speakers that sit on the back floorboard. No fucking way was I going to cut into a mint 1963 Riviera. So yeah … after 100 miles of driving from Dallas to Waco this morning, it was time to pause the "Soul to Soul" album for now and zoom in on local talk radio – scan the dial for any hubbub about this being the second anniversary of the Burning of Waco by David Koresh. But I got very different news – immediately – an explosion in Oklahoma City. The first reports had the blame being assigned to a couple of guys who "looked middle eastern." Hmmm – that's typical. In America, we have a tendency to blame outsiders for our woes. We've been trying to pin JFK's death on the communists for thirty years, refusing to come to grips with the concept that it was probably just another crazy American with a gun. Now this. Foreigners? Really? On the 19^th of April? In the middle of the goddam country? My immediate gut reaction tells me otherwise. Which is why I'm now northbound on I-35, approaching 90 according to the Riv's speedometer – Waco in the rearview mirror and my new destination, only four non-stop hours away. Maybe it's time to focus – stop thinking, stop talking, shut off this Sony tape recorder hanging around my neck and burn for Oklahoma City. And find out what REALLY happened.

* * *

TELEGRAM – April 19, 1995, 2:00 p.m.

TO:  Nort Johnson, Publisher & Editor, Showcase Chicago

FR:  Mad Bomber

RE:  OK City is NOT OK

GREETINGS FROM BOMB CITY. STOP. CHAOS – DEATH – EVEN AMONG LIVING. STOP. CASH RECEIVED - THANKS. STOP. GIVE ME A DAY OR TWO. STOP.

* * *

I'd been in Dallas less than a week for a much needed vacation when I received a message from my publishers to visit Waco (two hours to the south) to "capture the mood of the place" two years to the date after David Koresh and his ilk went up in flames.

I hit the road on the morning of the 19^th only to arrive in Waco at 9:30 to learn it wasn't the Branch Davidians they were talking about. It was Oklahoma City, and the implications vis a vis the Waco connection were frightful. After an initial inclination to head for the scene of the crime, I thought, "Christ, no, you don't need this – better to resume the intended vacation. But as the Dallas skyline came into view, some perverse notion in my mind said, "keep going." So I did, straight up Interstate 35 … straight to Oklahoma City.

Of course, by the time I arrived, all hell was on earth in this town, and the idea of any real and true old-fashioned print reporting was out of the question. With great fear on the street that there may be more bombs, the survival instinct took hold as I caught the cries of a woman passing by which forced me to get a grip on the true implications of this insidious act.

"Why us?" she cried as she ran by.

All I could think was "Hell, why anyone?" But then … "Why not? Why not anyone?" This is how easy it has become to destroy for the sake of destruction in this country. In a nation of millions, there are bound to be a few devils out there, running wild, uncontrolled and uncontrollable.

Two days of Oklahoma City was all I could take; I was beyond any condition to "work" … getting the job done. No longer being able to stand the anger boiling up in my being, I got out of town on Friday. Just short of the Missouri border, I stopped to check in with my publisher, who, incredulously, asked if I had a camera with me and, if so, would I go back to Oklahoma City. I voiced an irate "No!" and got back into the car. I just sat there for a few minutes, thinking that no goddam photo could capture the images in my head. Images I was hoping to soon forget forever. No camera could capture the sight of the blood flowing, the screams of the people, the smell of the black smoke, the dust of charred human flesh sticking to your skin …

* * *

Usually, a drive across this huge and open land of ours is reassuring. But not on this day. Today, it makes me angry. It's strange, on this day, to be moving across and observing the beauty of a land that has spawned this newly escalated culture of hate.

"Other seeds fell upon thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them. Other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain … he who has ears, let him hear."

-          Matthew 13:7-9

Maybe George Orwell's 1984 had something, after all. For more than two hundred years, we've tried to govern ourselves, only to prove that we are virtually incapable of doing so peacefully. The story of Orwell's Winston Smith taught us all to fear totalitarianism, but it could, indeed, ultimately sustain us despite ourselves.