The Deer Hunter

National Review Online,  October 26, 2004

Carefully, silent lest he alert his foe, crouching, hunched, sometimes crawling, a camouflaged and heavily armed John Kerry makes his way across the harsh terrain. Later he emerges from this test by fire, this ordeal, to run for the White House on the back of tales of hardship and triumph, tales that some who were not there have the impudence to question, tales like this: "I go out with my trusty 12-gauge double-barrel, crawl around on my stomach. I track and move and decoy and play games and try to outsmart them. You know, you kind of play the wind. That's hunting" Yes, hunting. Did you think that I was talking about something else?

For reasons that have a little to do with the Second Amendment and a lot to do with Serotta John's need to bond with the Cabela's crowd, the Democratic candidate has been at carefully choreographed pains to show what a keen hunter he is—and always has been: "When I was a kid I used to hunt woodchuck, predators on the farm. I started with a BB gun, moved up to a .22, then a .30/30, and a shotgun. And I've shot birds off and on through my life, some game, rabbits, deer—I've been on Massachusetts deer hunts."

Yup. No nuance there, bub, no way.

Ah, but there is. Just in case some of Kerry's more sensitive supporters are offended by the thought of too many carcasses, nuance comes slithering back in: "I once had an incredible encounter with the most enormous buck—I don't know, 16 points or something. It was just huge. And I failed to pull the trigger at the right moment." And if that sounds to you just a teeny bit too much like that moment in The Deer Hunter when Michael Vronsky (a decorated hero of the Vietnam war, you know) gets a deer in his sights and decides not to shoot, well, you should be ashamed of yourself.

But, as Kerry tells it, this encounter seems to have been a rare armistice in his war against wildlife. For as his election campaign has continued, so have the bird bloodbaths and so, as the Washington Post's Laura Blumenfeld had the bad luck to discover, has the gory small talk: "Carve out the heart, he said over dinner, pull out the entrails and cut up the meat."

His victims? Well, there were the poor pheasants that perished in Iowa, a month or two before that state's critical primaries, and, most recently, the hapless geese butchered in Ohio just a few days ago (the New York Times noted that the Massachusetts Nimrod emerged from the fray with a hand "stained with goose blood"). Wisely, perhaps, in the context of a wartime election, Kerry has refrained from dove-shooting, but the senator still has fond memories of gunning down everyone's favorite bird of peace. According to the clearly traumatized Ms. Blumenfeld, this cornfield Krueger likes to watch doves "flutter and dart" before he fires. Then (PETA folk, look away) he will, he says, eat them. "You clean them. Let them hang. It takes three or four birds to have a meal. You might eat it at a picnic, cold roasted. I love dove."

Dove may or may not taste good (like the late President Mitterand, Kerry seems more like an Ortolan fan to me) but in stressing that he at least eats what he kills (the Iowa pheasants were, we were informed, sent to Kerry's home—the one in Boston—and two of the unfortunate Ohio geese, would, an aide told the New York Times, "soon be sent back to Mr. Kerry for consumption") the senator is almost certainly making a, well, let's use the word, nuanced, gesture to supporters such as the Humane Society of the U.S., which has somehow managed to endorse the great hunter despite, ahem, its own stern opposition to hunting and, indeed, its rather dim view of snacking on dove ("minimal sustenance," apparently).

If the Humane Society is comfortable with Kerry, many hunters are not. Some of them have been treating his hunting history with the same lack of respect that other naysayers have shown his stories of Christmas in Cambodia, the Boston marathon, and Chinese assault rifles. Doubtful about those Iowa pheasants? Well, check in with the ambiguously named website Sportsmen for Kerry/Edwards? There you can find Bush-bulge-style analysis of John Kerry's dog, John Kerry's thumb, and, to complete the murky picture, John Kerry's trigger finger. Other skeptics have claimed that no one, no one, would ever "hang" a dove (no, I really have no idea), while at least one blogger has even questioned whether any geese in those Ohio killing fields were really shot by Kerry.

But it was Kerry's claim that he crawled around on his stomach, "playing the wind," in pursuit of deer that stirred up the most suspicions. While this is what you do in Scotland (I write from sodden, scratched, and muddy experience), it is not the approach usually taken in America. To the NRA's executive director, Kerry's description was "so utterly bizarre" it made him "wonder whether Kerry has ever hunted a deer in his life." Anyone thinking of trying his deer-hunting tactics should "at least wear some blaze orange" so other hunters don't confuse him with "a snake slithering through the brush." And then there's Mark Steyn. Neither he nor "any of his New Hampshire neighbors" had "ever heard of anybody deer hunting by crawling around on his stomach, even in Massachusetts. The trick is to blend in with the woods and, given that John Kerry already looks like a forlorn tree in late fall, it's hard to see why he'd give up his natural advantage in order to hunt horizontally."

Sensing trouble over Crawlgate, the Kerry campaign turned for help not to his band of brothers, but, as the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel explained, to a cousin, one Bruce Droste, "who said he hunted deer with Kerry roughly half-a-dozen times in Massachusetts, most recently about seven years ago... The hunts were tied to an annual house party on private property, and the hunters used buckshot, partly for safety reasons, because of its short range. 'When you see (a deer), you absolutely freeze. Then the game is to see how you can get closer. . . . So you crawl along until you know you have a dead ringer shot.'" The Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel reports. You decide.

In reality, of course, the devil in this case is not in the details, not in the crawling hunter, the hanging dove, or even those notorious geese, but in the broader suspicion that Kerry's hunting fables are yet more evidence of a candidate unable both to be himself and to be elected. It's his awareness of this, more than anything else, that explains those infamous flip-flops, and it's that awareness—plus the understanding that Kerry needs the Hank Hill vote—that explains this odd, awkward, aloof pretense at being one of the boys.

Now, there's nothing too unusual about a politician who panders, but there is something disconcerting about what Kerry's outreach to outdoorsmen reveals about his view of their political sophistication. They are, Kerry appears to think, simpletons who can be won over by sportsman's tales, talk of his "beloved" Red Sox, and the illusion that the senator's supposed fondness for hunting signals a deep belief in the Second Amendment—an amendment that has, in fact, far more to do with the right of self-defense than the ability to chase, or crawl, after deer.

Meanwhile, the candidate's grimly entertaining and appallingly patronizing, pandering pastiche of a regular guy is likely to continue down to the wire. In Pike County, Ohio, the proprietors of the Buchanan Village Store were subjected to the newly dumbed-down grammar of ("Can I get me a hunting license here?") of the Yale intellectual who is fluent in French, but no longer, it seems, his native tongue. What will Kerry say if he goes on the campaign trail into deepest Appalachia?

"Squeal like a pig?"

The Curious Discretion of Teresa Heinz Kerry

national Review Online, October 19, 2004

If there's one thing that we have learned about Teresa Heinz Kerry it is that she is a woman who is not shy, as she repeatedly likes to remind us, about speaking her mind. Over the last few months, this splendidly bizarre, undeniably batty, figure has entertained, appalled, and enthralled Americans with her opinions—and her ignorance—on a startling range of issues. No wars for oil! Bin Laden will be the October surprise! Gin and white raisins cure arthritis!

When it comes to talking about her taxes, however, the voluble—and supposedly fearless—Mrs. Heinz Kerry has been uncharacteristically tongue-tied, preferring instead to hide behind her children. Citing their privacy (thanks to the Heinz trusts, her finances are deeply intertwined with those of her sons) she has held out against full disclosure of her 2003 tax records. As she explained back in April, "What I have and what I receive is not just mine, it is also my children's, and I don't know that I have the right to make public what is theirs...If I could separate it, I would have no problem."

Well, we are unlikely ever to know what attempts were made to separate these interests out for disclosure purposes, but, after a release discreetly timed for last Friday afternoon, we have now discovered how much of her 2003 returns Teresa Heinz Kerry is prepared to share with the rest of us: Two pages. That's about a page for every $2,500,000 in income. Gee, thanks.

As always with such paperwork, what's left out is far, far more interesting than what's left in. Those old, or jaundiced, enough to remember the Clintons' generosity with their used underwear will be disappointed that no details were given of Mrs. Kerry's charitable donations, or even of how much they were. Could it be, who knows, that Teresa was a little stingy last year, or could it be, perhaps, that she gave to some charities that might prove a little embarrassing in an election year?

Baseless innuendo? Very possibly. But there's an easy way to show that these suggestions are completely unfair. Disclose the full form, Teresa. Privacy? Oh, come off it. How can disclosure of any part of Mrs. Kerry's personal 1040 relate to her children, all of whom are now in their thirties?

But then there are the pesky, yet handy, family trusts (widely believed to be worth about around one billion dollars) that must mean so much to Teresa and her boys. As the New York Times noted with, incredibly, a hint of disapproval, nothing, nothing, was disclosed about them: "If the trusts are as large as reported—and the Kerry campaign has not challenged the billion dollar estimate—then even a modest 5 percent return would have generated $50 million of income, 10 times what was on the two pages released by Ms. Heinz Kerry."

Trusts and income this large, even if only partly controlled by a potential future First Lady, matter. We've already seen how Teresa effectively helped finance her husband's campaign, at least in its bleaker moments. How her money is generated is, therefore, of some interest as is its potential, particularly in the context of a campaign that has made so much out of "Halliburton," for conflicts (or the perception of conflicts) of interest.

Teresa, of course, continues to use her family's "privacy" as a justification for this billion-dollar omission. It would be easier to have sympathy for that argument had not John Kerry's campaign manager only recently described Mary Cheney's sexual orientation as "fair game." And then there's Mrs. Edwards. She attributed Lynne Cheney's aversion to political point scoring over her daughter's private life to "a certain degree of shame." Charming.

To follow the sleazy logic of Elizabeth Edwards (oh, why not?) is there something about the Heinz trusts which Teresa finds "shameful"? Are some of their investments insufficiently PC? Could it be that the trusts are embarrassingly tax efficient? Are there any of those dreaded "conflicts"? Maybe the trusts are simply too large for their riches to be spelled out by a populist campaign already burdened with a candidate whose blue collar comes tailored by Turnbull & Asser. We don't know, of course, because they are not before our eyes.

And that privacy defense? Well, it was Mary Cheney's participation in her father's bid for reelection that, apparently, made her "fair game." While a comparison of the two cases cannot be stretched too far (no one is suggesting that Mary Cheney's finances be disclosed), it is worth remembering that two out of Teresa's three sons have been prominent in their stepfather's campaign. Given the exceptional circumstances, couldn't they, and their third brother, have agreed to, at least, some disclosure about the income generated by the trusts in which they and their mother are beneficiaries: It's not as if their wealth will come as a surprise to anyone.

But all this is to play Teresa's game. There is plenty that she could disclose without overly compromising her children's privacy, and, if only to avoid the suspicions that will otherwise inevitably arise, plenty that she should disclose. The reality, however, is that, for whatever reason, she simply isn't prepared to do so. Teresa Heinz Kerry has, instead, a different message for the electorate.

"Shove it."

Comfort Zone

National Review Online, September 7, 2004

So the GOP convention passed off, to use the bland, blinding bureaucratic phraseology, without major incident. There were many arrests, sure, and on the Sunday before a march involving hundreds of thousands of demonstrators, but these are part of the regular theater, or in the case of some of the protests, the pantomime, of American politics in our age of unease and unusual rancor. But the other possibility, the possibility about which we murmured, we whispered, we speculated and in anticipation of which not a few folk fled town, did not, thank God and, I suspect, good security, come to pass.

But the fear, the unease that has never really left, not here, not in this city, since that beautiful, horrible September morning was all too real. How could it not be? There is the dread of the future, triggered by alerts, color-coded warnings and plain commonsense, and then there are the still raw memories of the past, prompted by that hole in the sky at the southern end of our island, or in endless, countless, smaller ways, the postcards that still sell pictures of those two doomed towers, the fire truck I saw parked near Rockefeller Center on Tuesday with its small metal plaque honoring the "brothers of Ladder 4" who died at Ground Zero: Angelini, Brennan, Haub, Lynch, O'Callaghan, Oitice, Tipping, Wooley....

The convention site itself, ugly, clunky Madison Square Garden, and the faded Beaux-Arts Farley building, together with the streets that surrounded them, were a ring-fenced fortress of foreboding, oddly quiet for Manhattan, cut off from the shove and the push of the streets of Midtown by the still makeshift barricades of our savage new era—vast concrete blocks here, a sand-filled city truck there. In part they were designed to ensure that New York City did not suffer a rerun of Chicago 1968, but as with the barriers outside the Central Synagogue on 55th Street, or those that crowd the Vanderbilt entrance to Grand Central Station, there can be no doubt about what or who they were really intended to deter. In time, as extreme Islam's war against the West endures (and George W. Bush is right, it will) such barriers will be prettied up, will be made to blend, will become just another part of our urban and psychological landscape, but for now they are an open scar, yet another reminder of the price our civilization is being made to pay for its survival.

Access to the convention was, like so much else these days, color-coded. Different colored cards gave admission to different parts of the convention complex, to the media center to some, to the floor to others. We strolled through the security zone that enveloped us, cards hanging from our necks, evidence that we all somehow belonged. We had been checked, approved, authorized, our papers were in order. In this, the land of the First Amendment, these portents of a garrison state were a little spooky, and not a little sad, but the far more significant tragedy is that, in this conflict of sneak attack and mass atrocity, they were indeed necessary.

Needless to say, smiling, unsmiling, friendly, withdrawn, beneath their helmets and their caps, New York's Finest were everywhere, pulled, it seemed from every unit the city had to spare, mounted, on foot, in patrol car, on motorbikes, courteous and watchful, checking out those inside the zone, monitoring those outside, and waiting, waiting, waiting.

By night the drama—and the tension—was, quite literally, highlighted by the searchlights of helicopters hovering above and of the klieg lights rooted below. Between them they seemed to illuminate every sinister nook and each questionable cranny. Elsewhere, looking out from the zone, there were signs that life went on as usual. Broadway shone, as it always shines, the high-rises glittered and shimmered as far as one could see. To the east, the Empire State Building, once again, but tragically now, New York's tallest, was bathed in red, white, and blue. The disconcerting sense of normality—of once what was—was emphasized by the white stars and posters of red white and blue bunting that bedecked Macy's, and the cheery flashing sign over the Garden: Welcome delegates!

Some time, it must have been after midnight on Wednesday, there were a few demonstrators out in the streets beyond the zone. Bush is a murderer! Bush is a liar! Bush will kill for oil! Peace now! Three or four ladies, tackily glamorous in showgirl costume, ran by laughing and giggling, cardboard missiles strapped—How should I put this?—in the place where Hedwig still had that angry inch.

Someone shouts expletive-sodden abuse at a delegate, something about blood-spattered hands and Halliburton, but the delegate walks on, oblivious or unconcerned, protected by the cops who are everywhere, many with glow-sticks that cut red swathes through the air as they point where to go. And where not to. Even here, in the vicinity of the zone, but outside it, we are carefully controlled, move along, move along, allowed to cross the streets only at designated points, not here, no sir, not here, and herded behind red plastic netting until it is the moment to cross.

From time to time, large buses swept by, ferrying delegates to their hotels. Behind darkened windows, they could look out. No one could see in. Later came the vice-presidential cavalcade, motorbikes, a couple of limos, police cars, an SUV bristling with odd-looking antennae. I thought I caught a glimpse of Lynne Cheney through a partly opened window. The speeches had gone well, but she was staring out, pensive, a little anxious it seemed.

Back home, I pulled out Theodore White's history of the 1960 campaign for his description of the conventions that year. Here he is with the Democrats: "Through the Biltmore lobby paraded two rival Puerto Rican delegations, with their steel drums and guitars, making music and dancing in Latin costume. Here floated the pretty girls, almost indistinguishable from one another in their official red-white-and-blue-dresses and skimmer hats, soliciting delegates, giggling, jiggling, pinning badges on anyone who lingered...."

That's all gone now. Ancient history. What a shame.

Bowery Bums

National Review Online, August 31, 2004

New York, N.Y.—It was Saturday night. Despite the killjoy sign—"No drugs, weapons or alcohol"—the killjoy heat, the killjoy humidity, the killjoy rabble, and the killjoy location (a church!), I went in through the door. Left-wing agitators, maybe even anarchists, were in town and someone (an assignment our killjoy editor had rather discouragingly told the New York Times was the "short straw") had to keep an eye on them. But, in my Gomorrah, the city I call home, the city of Pinch Sulzberger, Al Sharpton, Susan Sarandon, and the ever-degenerate George Costanza, where to begin?

After detailed research—several minutes at least on the Internet—a meeting hosted by the Reverend Billy and his First Amendment Revival Church & Gospel Choir seemed like a good place to start. The venue, St. Mark's-in-the-Bowery, is often described, ominously, as a center for arts in the East Village, and nothing good, we know, can come from the bohemians who choose to live down there. As for Reverend Billy's topic ("prepare for nonviolent dramatic civil disobedience"), it seemed promisingly, suitably, wickedly subversive. Yes, yes, necessary disclaimer, of course such folks are not part of the Democratic mainstream, but they are, ask Howard Dean, increasingly the source of much of the party's energy, inspiration, and verve.

Needless to say, the sight inside the old church (built, interestingly, on the foundations of the chapel where Peter Stuyvesant once worshiped) was not pretty. But not for the reasons you might think. Blasphemy? It's been done before. Piercings? Who cares? Tattoos? Whatever. The glimpses of post-apocalyptic tailoring? Just local color, normal for the East Village. Worrying about those Mad Max shreds and tatters would make as much sense as going to France and being bothered by berets. Even the occasional, horrifying glimpse of Birkenstock was no great difficulty for me, a veteran of the fashion disaster that was Britain in the 1970s.

No, the problem in that room was the stink of self-righteousness, a smug fug of self-congratulation, stupidity, sanctimony, and bile. Republicans were bad, bad, bad. Ashcroft was evil, and America's rights were under siege. The Patriot Act, hiss, and the Sedition Act, boo, were two centuries apart but one and the same in their iniquity. On the Reverend's word, we raised our hands in the air, each of us clutching a little scrap of paper on which someone had typed that magic, marvelous First Amendment: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

Fine sentiments indeed, even if I wasn't completely convinced that all those present wanted to allow Republicans their right peaceably to assemble in a city that has, we have been told again and again, no time for them, their opinions, or their yahoo red-state sensibilities.

And as for the blonde-dyed, caustic, sarcastic Reverend Billy, he's a star (see his congregation quiver), a celebrity, a snide counterculture darling, a mall-rat Savonarola, a critic of consumerism, a parodist, a prankster, a preacher—but not, I'm afraid, a parson. Dressing up as a vic is just Billy's shtick, a pantomime pastiche as bogus as his logic is faulty, his politics are ludicrous, and his gospel choir is hot.

But if Billy was silly, he was Reverend Rationality compared with the freak show unfolding in the darkness outside. Making my way through the churchyard, over the flagstones that mark the last resting places of poor David Jones (died 1823) and lucky John Wilson (managed to hang on until 1826), past the bust of an outraged Peter Stuyvesant (if a head made of copper could scream, it would, that evening, have been screaming), past the pile of provisions and cooking utensils being assembled for the drama to come, past downtown Kropotkins and trust-fund communards, past suburban shamans and, rare authenticity, a few genuine Bowery bums, I find a large circle of people gathered around two women, shrill of voice, strident of opinion, silver of face makeup, and, well, confusing of message. These ladies' hopes of "magic action in the streets" were clear enough, sort of, but, as we all turned round and round on their shouted instructions, our hands reaching imploringly for the night sky, the "action in the center of the magic of the web" began to seem very, very murky.

And that was before someone told us that we were trees. Yes we were! The trees were rooted in the energy of the earth. We were rooted in the energy of the earth. Trees had branches. We were branches. We had to feel the energy, or something, from the Earth. The Earth, earth! An element, yes, yes, I got it. At last. Others came later. Fire, two sparklers, fizzing and spitting flame into the center of our circle and then, yes, you guessed it, water, poured and re-poured between two plastic glasses (recyclable, I'm sure). The crowd watched on, impressed, enthralled, captivated. Twelve hours later they would be marching through Manhattan because, you know, George W. Bush is, like, dumb.

The irony, I suspect, would have been lost on them.

Cage Heat

National Review Online, July 30 2004

Boston, Mass.—It was, said U.S. District Judge Douglas P. Woodlock, a man who has, quite obviously, never seen the inside of a Manhattan apartment, a "grim, mean and oppressive space," but, on a sunny Thursday afternoon, the fenced-in "cage" designed to hold demonstrators protesting at the Democratic National Convention (or, at least, haranguing the delegates as they go to and fro) is practically empty. "Pens are for animals," say the signs, but this is the pen of a Kentucky Fried Chicken's dreams, airy, spacious, an acre to roam where, what's more, the human inhabitants are, I suspect, almost all vegetarians.

Now and again, there are moments of excitement. A small group bears down on the wire barrier with bolt-cutters, bluster, and bravado. "Up with dissent, down with de fence, up with dissent down with de fence." Boston's Finest roll their eyes, smirk, and mutter into radios. Snip. Cut. Chop. More muttering into radios. Snip again, cut again, chop again, and, wild cheering, it's through to the outer boundary. Boston's Finest move in. A tussle, a scuffle, maybe an arrest. Other protesters film the struggle. News media film the protesters filming the struggle. The police prevail. The thin metal line holds. The other, licensed lunatics, the ones, you know, caged inside the Fleet Center, are safe, free to continue plotting and planning for victory unmolested, their dreams and delusions undisturbed by demonstrators.

Drama done, the cage slips back into torpor, the only sound to be heard an old sweet song, "We Shall Overcome," over and over and over again. A choir? Eager activists? No, just a guy at a podium with a cassette player and a mike. The tune echoes through the loudspeakers placed all through that empty space, loudspeakers designed for the crowd that has never turned up, loudspeakers that fail to rally the few faithful who linger and lurk, but do not deign to sing along.

Only the posters and the placards, tied to the wire, stuck to the pillars, and hanging from a gate, are doing their duty, stolidly proclaiming their message, conventional (Repeal The Patriot Act!), inspirational, (Tear Down This Wall!), insulting, and, suitably for the age of Teresa Heinz Kerry, multilingual (Democrats—No Cojones!), anarchistic (Don't Vote, It Only Encourages Them!), paranoid, (Free Speech—The Second Victim of 9/11!), surprising (Bush-Cheney 04!), adventurous (Polygamy Now!), honest (This Is A Farce!), strange (Wilderness!), and desperate (Flee The Pen!).

Those who have fled the pen can be found nearby, clad in the cranky clown costume (keffiyehs, alarming piercings, Jesse James face masks, making-a-point make-up, white man's dreadlocks) of anti-globalization street theater everywhere, as they gamely, if a little lamely (there was more enthusiastically vicious trouble later: with my usual keen journalistic instincts I had already left the scene), go through their paces beneath the indifferent gaze of the yuppies sitting in the sports bars that spill out onto the sidewalk. Drums sound, slogans are screamed and cops, stoic in that sci-fi-riot-squad gear that they wear nowadays, are taunted by those that they are sworn to protect. A solemn girl sits cross-legged in the street, wearing a gag. I'd like to ask her why, but....

Others indulge in darker mutterings, drearily familiar accusations from this country's sour, distorted foreign-policy debate, "Halliburton," "oil," and, wait for it, "lies," all make their now customary appearance. As the afternoon warms up, placards dance somewhere out there on the lunatic fringe, denouncing the wickedness of the dollar, announcing the candidacy of Nader, warning of the imminence of Hell, and, weirdly even in this company, discussing some sort of conspiracy involving Yevgeny Primakov, the former KGB agent who rose to be Yeltsin's prime minister. And let's not forget all those occupations (unless they are of Lebanon). End the occupation of Iraq! End the occupation of Palestine! End the occupation of Haiti! Yes, Haiti. Tibet, meanwhile, must be freed. Quite how, however, is not explained.

And in an era of revived, and often highly organized, protest, the activists have support people, an entourage, staff. There are "medics" with paper red crosses and healing bottles of, uh, water, and, scattered throughout the crowd and clad in a green so bright (I think) that it made me grateful to be color-blind, the "legal observers," socialist attorneys, two strikes with a third for self-importance, from the National Lawyers Guild (an "association dedicated to the need for basic change in the structure of our political and economic system") scribbling, scribbling, scribbling mysterious commentary into the notebooks that they all seem to carry.

Suddenly, there's a disturbance, photographers, police, movement. Dennis Kucinich has arrived. Sanity at last.

Well, these things are relative.