Why liberals feel trepidation (and you should, too.)

Sometime shortly after an apple came up missing in a very special garden, Democrat and Republican politicians started pointing fingers at each other. Since the original vitriol, the great unwashed, as Blackie Sherrod referred to us, have had rules of civility that included the axiom that if you have a friend and want to keep them, don’t discuss politics. Another truth of early history (at least when I was growing up in the latter half of the last century) was that only two things are certain, death and taxes. Our present politics long ago exploded the first rule and, urban myths aside, both parties have struggled mightily to produce the most entertaining tax shell game on the midway for their constituencies. That leaves only death, which hardly seems fair. But as we say in Texas, there is only one fair - and that’s the State Fair - and it only comes around once a year.

The fundamental philosophical debate about what government should be and do is a sign of the health of our democracy. There are some elemental rules: reasoned discussion, democratic process, majority rule with benevolence toward all, and the loyal opposition. But the Jerry Springer-ization of our political discourse is a result of a number of forces mostly related to money. Jon Stewart pointed to the terror wrought by the 24/7, post-9/11 news cycle. Unofficial fundraising arms of the Republican and Democratic Party whip the base into a frenzy in order to win elections, money drives the message and the message drives the money. While there are fractures in our politics gushing from politicians, the news media and in our debates in cyber-space, my neighborhood remains a place where we wave and chat and help our neighbors, despite the fact some are more conservative than others. We seem to be beginning the process of restoring respect and remembering that the phrase, “Our way, or the Highway!” does not appear in the Constitution.

While a zealous advocate for my beliefs, I have never been one to shy from listening and self-examination. I always know that no matter how much I believe something is true, I could be wrong. This week especially, but for some time previously, I have spent considerable time reflecting on how we got to this ugly place and what I can do to help bring discourse back to the point where we are focused on issue debate and not yelling, “Hell No, you won’t” or “Liar” from the floor of the Congress. There is the risk in determining to take a calm and thoughtful approach from this point forward. As Will Rogers said, “A lie can get half way around the world before the truth gets out of bed.” The road to civil discourse will not be easy for either side.

Because I am prone to healthy introspection, I woke this morning ready to indulge in the usual liberal guilt that I may have been unfair and asking questions. Are we liberals reading too much into the use of similes, metaphors and hyperbole by the conservatives and the right wing? Possibly. Have leftists been guilty of the same kinds of violent rhetoric, if not outright violence? Absolutely. So what is it we liberals are so afraid of?

We are afraid that the incorrigibles of democracy, the ones freely exercise their rights while advocating an America that it is not a Great Experiment but a Great Absolute One group known as Reconstructionists and Dominionists pose a threat to this country of tolerance, immigrants and diversity. Groups like Coral Ministries and other Mega-Churches around the country stand in the forefront of this relatively new “Christianity”. These are not mainstream conservative evangelicals, even Jerry Falwell has backed as far away as possible from these groups. In a recent piece in Mother Jones, “Does Bachmann Believe Congress should be run by Christians,” Stephanie Mencimer, exposes yet another right wing extremist hate group parading as Christians. They speak for God and God has told them that Jesus will only return when they have taken over all aspects of the government. I am not kidding, this is their doctrine. They claim to be the Vice-Regents of God, a term I don’t remember from Presbyterian Sunday school. You can pass this off as liberal hysteria but in this “church”, the leaders have been holocaust deniers, defenders of segregation and slavery, because, you know, slavery was in the bible.

Gary North, a “Christian Economist”, is a disciple of Rousas John Rushdooney, his late father in law, and is one of the leaders of Coral Ministries. He believes women who have had an abortion and all gays should be stoned to death, but of course he knows this is all against the law. However, he has a plan for that:

"We must use the doctrine of religious liberty…until we train up a generation of people who know that there is no religious neutrality, no neutral law, no neutral education, and no neutral civil government. Then they will get busy constructing a Bible-based social, political, and religious order which finally denies the religious liberty of the enemies of God."

Now, not even these guys really scare us liberals. But when far right Republicans like Michelle Bachmann or Mike Pence go courting these folks down in Florida for votes, we do start to get a little nervous. Add in the many Rushdooney church off-shoots around the country and you have a formidable group working to, “take back America”. Hmmm, seems I have heard that expression before. Was it the Tea Party? Okay, now we are scared. America has never been like them and, hopefully, never will. What they want is to take America backward to a place where intolerance is punitive and they can make people live their way, under their God. North wrote:

"The long-term goal of Christians in politics should be to gain exclusive control over the franchise… Those who refuse to submit publicly…must be denied citizenship."

Another leader in the Reconstructionist Movement, is Gary DeMar who wrote, in “American Heritage” that the goal of the movement is to create:

"…an America that recognizes the sovereignty of God over all of life, where Christians apply a Biblical worldview to every facet of society. This future America will be again a 'city on a hill' drawing all nations to the Lord Jesus Christ and teaching them to subdue the earth for the advancement of His Kingdom."

I hate founding father arguments but allow me this one. The founding fathers did not have the views of Coral Ministries and others like them in mind when the concept of one nation under God was propounded. I am done getting over-wrought about budget fights and political campaign cross-hairs. But these people who are so consumed with these ‘end times” scenarios, that they feel compelled to live outside everything that America and the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and the history of our wars stand for, namely, freedom, scare the bejeezus out of me. All of ya’ll on the right keep your eyes on Earth First, the ACLU, MSNBC and all of the limp wristed left-wing extremists that you perceive as a threat. I’m watching the Reconstructionists.

Dialing for Reasons

Before embarking on this blog entry, I want to reiterate that I believe the Arizona shooting highlights our mental health crisis, more than a political speech crisis, or a gun control crisis.

I don’t know if I am up to the full blown mental health discussion. My experience in this area as a poverty lawyer was extensive and not very successful. During that time and since, I have made a few observations that seem to have held up over the years. Since the 80’s, we have embarked down a very bi-partisan road of respecting individual rights with out-patient programs, as opposed to institutions, and then, defunding the out-patient programs, resulting in mentally ill people under bridges and pushing baskets, living in tent camps in urban parks and a safety net with huge holes. One problem is that mentally ill people rarely know they are mentally ill, or at least how mentally ill they are, and avoid treatment. In an environment where the scarce resources are not mandatory, the mentally ill are not free, they are simply uncared for. Post-Tucson, we are already hearing compelling stories and thoughtful discussion about our neglect of mental health as it affects the small percentage of people with mental health issues who are prone toward violence. If there are any silver linings, perhaps this will be one. It will be interesting to see how the upcoming Congress deals with funding for mental health.

As to gun control, I would in no way infringe on the right of sane, responsible people to own guns. I have owned guns, though not recently, hunted ducks, was a member of the Texins Rod and Gun Club where my grandfather taught me gun safety and respect, and a junior member of the NRA.

Certainly, the sane and responsible among us, would deny firearms to people who would apparently commit some heinous act. I simply ask a few questions about how we determine responsibility and sanity. A teaching credential requires education, testing and a background check. A driver’s license requires education and testing. I can, rightfully, be denied a seat on a plane if there are suspicions about me. We require seat belts, helmets, and safety regulations in dangerous workplaces and there is no doubt that far fewer have been killed or maimed. But I can be a walking, talking fruit cake and buy a gun in short order? I have seen the enormous NRA building in Washington, not far from the Capitol, and am amazed that any gun control legislation ever sees the light of day, much less passes. I can’t see a lot of good coming from any of it, but I have not heard of anyone being killed because of gun control legislation.

The consideration of political speech and the recent fever pitch of vitriol suddenly is being seriously discussed. Everyone is talking about “dialing down”. Except that today, Rush Limbaugh says that Democrats wanted this shooting to happen to save the Obama presidency. I have been as pitched in the arguments as anyone. I have been de-friended on Facebook. Close friends have, rightfully, called me out from time to time. Sometimes we think we can change minds, win arguments, or appear smart, and I have learned we can do nothing of the kind. But through considerate discourse we can respect our differences, and Senate filibuster rules notwithstanding, the majority rules. Roger Ailes, the President of Fox News has instructed his broadcasters (see? I didn’t say henchmen, or pit bulls or hired guns) to be professional and intellectual. I don’t believe him for a second and have watched more Fox in the last 24 hours than recommended by the Surgeon General, perhaps this can be the beginning of a second silver lining of the tragedy in Arizona.

As Rep. Gifford’s astronaut brother-in-law, Commander Scott Kelly said from space yesterday, “We are better than this. We must do better.” The old hymn says, “Let there Peace on Earth and let it begin with me.” Heightened verbal inappropriateness, forgetting our commonality, and loss of civility have brought us as low as we have been since 9/11. Unlike 9/11, we have lacked a common enemy. We were turning on each other. The gunman may not have been inspired by a politician or talk radio but he is a metaphor for the entire country. As Pogo said, “We have seen the enemy and he is us.” Now, we have had the galvanizing event that has caused us to remember that civility and respect allow the heart of our patriotism to be big enough to include everyone. Let there be peace in the way we talk to each other and let it begin with all of us.

Forgive My Grief

There already have been millions of words written and spoken about the shooting in Tuscon. Mostly, the words will be the same words as those used to try to explain Ft. Hood, or after the 1991 Luby’s rampage in Killeen, Texas, or, following a massacre at a McDonalds in San Diego in 1984, and after assassinations in Dallas, Memphis and Los Angeles in the 1960’s. The same words tried to put into context the shooting of President Ronald Reagan, who thankfully survived, by the son of weathy Republican parents, and of John Lennon, by a disturbed man, who had worshiped him as a Beatle. We have grasped and groped for language to understand and explain the incomprehensible. So often, we have lost track, or tried to forget, the times, places and number of dead – the 20 places of worship in the last decade or the 105 schools and colleges since 1969, from Columbine to Virginia Tech. These are just the shootings that shock our sensibilities because of the fame, or number, of the victims or their vulnerability. Having already been sufficiently numbed to the daily grind of death occurring in gang violence and domestic disputes, we save our words of penance and prayers for the end of violence, for the most overt and less common place acts. This is not to demean or trivialize the words that attempt to uplift the spirits of the bereaved or a mourning nation. They are the mantra and liturgy of our grief. They are necessary, insufficient, and heart wrenching. In their continuing repetition there is both comfort and conundrum. The words comfort us now, the conundrum promises we will be here again. Blame and more gun laws will not cure unspeakable loss. Perhaps it is valid to say that this is a cost of freedom that crazy people get to have guns. That view is hard to share as the destruction, loss and pain brought on by the freedom of the crazed, would not seem to outweigh the freedom formerly enjoyed by the deceased, the wounded or the traumatized. The answers are not so easy. Derangement takes many forms and as long as random gun violence has been an epidemic in this country, there is almost nothing about it that we understand. Not every shooter is obviously deranged. There may be no sure way to effectively screen out the mentally ill, criminally impulsive, and just plain mean people, from owning a gun. All we are left with is our freedom (such as it is when it appears that we are required to own a gun to protect our freedoms, even if we don't want a gun) and countless words of sorrow. The national moment of silence just led by the President and First Lady, and shared by millions of Americans, was solemn and poignant, a moment to think and pray without the necessity of words. As Rep. Gabrielle Gifford’s brother in law, astronaut Scott Kelly, said succinctly from space this morning, “We are better than this.”

Carmen - not the opera.

I don’t really know anything about Carmen Electra. Oh, I remembered there was a connection to Prince, that she was married to Dennis Rodman without getting all tatted up, and she sort of lurks in the C level of the entertainment world, nothing too specific. If you had shown me a picture of her and asked who it was, I might as well have answered, “Apollonia Kotero”? But, there is something about that name, Carmen Electra, that you just don’t forget. So I was pleased to see her recently, turning up in a barrage of ads from Lectric Shave which are the hottest things since the Aqua Velva and Noxema ads of the 60’s and 70’s. However, Carmen’s persuasive powers being what they are, I am inclined to comply with her desire that I begin using an electric razor and Lectric Shave.

I had assumed she merely had my shaving interests at heart. The fact she is a well-maintained, somewhat sophisticated entertainment mogul, not to mention a snappy dresser, is all the more reason that she be taken seriously. We snobs who require quality in our art may not find Carmen’s work particularly compelling, but commercials are completely different for me. Commercials are these Freudian moments when we reveal things about our culture that we normally don’t like to discuss. Carmen stroking a man’s cheek simply because he has shaved reveals the suppressed male desire that women not expect too much from us. I love that it’s kind of a throwback ad summoning a day gone by when a smooth shave was cause for a bump and grind song and dance.

You may have scoffed when I called her a mogul. Did you know that Carmen has been in at least 37 movies? Five of those - making sure not to assume too much about the audience’s intelligence - end in the word “Movie”? To be sure, there were some bombs along the way but who could forget her work in: “Oy Vey! My Son is Gay!!” or, the 1999 epic, “Mating Habits of the Earthbound Human.” She produced an exercise video series called “Carmen Electra Aerobic Striptease.” In 2005, proving her business acumen, she was named commissioner of the Naked Women’s Wrestling League and made commercials for Taco Bell. People who would call her “easy” for her four appearances in Playboy, don’t understand that we buy it for the articles.

I really miss the class and dignity of a Sophia Loren or Raquel Welch and I guess girls like Carmen are the modern version of those icons. Just because someone is sexy does not mean we have to start ripping their clothes off, which if you have seen Carmen’s wardrobe, that’s exactly what it looks like. It is hard to imagine someone who appears to have been less concerned with her career choices and, yet, has survived and flourished. This should give hope to the Lindsey Lohan’s and Paris Hilton’s of the world. Carmen Electra becoming the Lectric Shave girl is a testament to the axiom, “In America anything is possible and, unfortunately, probable.”

Cowboy Mecca

Much of what we call the Metro-Pasture here in North Texas, lies basically in the Trinity River basin. It may be a flood prone delta but it’s our flood prone delta. It is a flat to slightly rolling terrain where the rain soaks the thick black gumbo clay soil and drains toward the rivulets and gullies that form the creeks and streams that empty into the forks of the Trinity River. The Trinity is a modest, muddy tributary, which then fills and floods any place that is not built on relatively high ground or fortified by levies. It is not a place prone to grand vistas.

However, there is the occasional chalk escarpment buckling from the post oak savannah and grassland prairie, which produces the highest point in Dallas County at 841 feet above sea level. One of these runs north and south along the western edge of the county and through places known as Cockrell Hill and Cedar Hill. Driving west along the Tom Landry Highway out of Dallas, I-30 crests this geological bump and offers the closest thing to a “view” as one living in these parts can imagine.

There, 9.3 miles to the west something totally new - disc like and enormous - protrudes from the otherwise flat line of the horizon. It catches the eye and conjures images of a giant observatory or the Death Star itself – crashed into the earth and half buried, something from the next century or the one after. By the time you reach the bottom of the lonely hill, the landscape has swallowed the semi-sphere and for the next 8.5 miles, the uninitiated driver wonders, “What the hell was that?” and, moreover, “Where the hell did it go?”

There on a landscape that only a civil engineer could love and make habitable, the first American Mecca of the new century has been erected. Architecturally, culturally, and in the history of sports, Cowboy Stadium, in form and function, succeeds far beyond the limits of the moniker, “football stadium”. Calling it a football stadium is akin to calling a stealth bomber an airplane or Raquel Welch, a girl. Welcome to “Jerry World”: the building that is as audacious as the seed, sower and seller of the idea, Dallas Cowboy owner, Mr. Jerral Wayne “Jerry” Jones.

What the Burj Khalifi is to the Dubai skyline, Cowboy Stadium is to football, perhaps America. It’s going to be a visible player whether you want it to be or not. It rises from the sedate suburban sprawl of Arlington, Texas, between Dallas and Ft. Worth and dwarfs next door neighbor, the 50,000 seat stadium, Rangers Ballpark in Arlington, a place locally known as The Temple. Although I am a fan, my general feeling about the business side of sport, is to just ignore it. It ruins the fun. At some point, football fan or not, you are likely to find yourself lost in Jerry’s realm, in a pilgrimage to the largest domed sports stadium in the world. Covering 3 million square feet, or 73 acres, it is anchored by two giant arches that rise to 292 feet in height and are a quarter of a mile in length. The reason you may find yourself there even if you never attend a sporting event is that the darned thing cost $1.6 billion. Jerry’s got a mortgage.

My first encounter with the futuristic works of the new urban auditorium was to see U2. I think it was U2. It could have been Kenny and the Casuals. We were so far away, I’m not sure. Though I was disappointed in my first encounter – they didn’t even turn the big screen on – I didn’t fail to appreciate the gravitas of the structure.

One can imagine the big house hosting cross-sections of humanity previously unimagined: the first simultaneously held Republican and Democratic Convention; or the world’s largest gathering of trans-gendered evangelicals. Moto-Cross and Tractor-Pulls can’t be far behind. Whatever happens at Cowboy Stadium, or whatever the name is once the naming rights are sold to a suitably high profile partner, one can rest assured it will be the biggest, the largest, or the most puffed-up ego-maniacally motivated event ever held, just like it’s owner.

It is hard to think of another character whose actual importance on the American cultural landscape is matched only by his own self-importance. Like a cross between Elvis, Walt Disney, and P.T Barnum, Jerry is as enigmatic as he is successful. Jerry has had a facelift and his net worth is listed at $2B. At one point he was voted least popular sports personality by Sports Illustrated. Jerry has played himself on television shows, like Entourage and Dallas: War of the Ewings and in commercials for Papa John’s and Pepsi.

Underestimating the vision and utter gall of the chief proponent of All Things Cowboy, has proven folly for many of us. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was not alone in thinking of Jerry as some hick from Arkansas, a guy who got lucky in the oil “bid-ness” and then got lucky again buying America’s team from a distressed seller for $140 million, now worth $1.6 billion. He instantly became a walking firestorm when he named himself general manager, a position formerly held by the legend, Tex Schramm and then fired the Sainted, Tom Landry. Jerry and new Coach Jimmy Johnson built a team quickly and the “luck” continued when the Cowboys won two Super Bowls in a row, 92 and 93. Jerry fired Johnson after 93 but the Cowboys went on to win one more in 95 under his Barney Fife Coach, Barry Switzer. Only a fool believes in that much luck. Only a bigger fool denies there is no luck involved at all.

The only person to over-estimate Jerry was Jerry himself. It is widely assumed, and Jones has admitted to a certain extent, that he drove Johnson away with his “whiskey talking” that any of 500 coaches could have won the Super Bowl with the talent that he had assembled. Jerry had made a trade with some crazy people in Minnesota for Herschel Walker. The Cowboys got 5 players and 8 draft choices. It was easy for Jerry to see himself as a genius as he used the plethora of picks to build the teams talent pool for Johnson. Once Johnson was fired, the wheels started falling off and we have been searching the roadside for them ever since.

As an owner in the NFL, Jones has done as much to market the league as a brand as well as his own team as anyone. The Cowboys gross over a quarter of a billion dollars each year just in merchandise. Jones is powerful - serving on NFL committees, involved in NFL charities, and a player in collective bargaining. While there is plenty of room to argue that while he has far more football experience than almost all NFL owners, his record as General Manager has been more like a broken theme park ride with people hanging upside down for hours than it has been a thrilling roller coaster ride. But nothing Jerry has done so far in the NFL, not even the three long-ago Super Bowls that he is so fond of mentioning anytime someone suggests he hire a “football man”, compares to conceiving and building Cowboy Stadium.

Not long after buying the team in 1989, Jerry began to dream of a place grander and more ostentatious than anything the National Football League had ever seen before. The statistics are somewhat dry, yet, overwhelming when you think about it. The total cost of the building stands somewhere near $1.5 billion, mostly financed and built during difficult economic times. To walk all of the way around the perimeter of the building is well over a mile. The Stadium seats 80,000 people, with an additional 30,000 more available for standing room only and high-dollar suites. As you walk the carpeted hallway that arcs around the field level suites, the walls are adorned by 4’ x 4’ enlarged photos from the Cowboy photo archives. Each level of the three million square feet facility is a tribute to the franchise, the entire building a museum to 50 years of one of the most successful sports franchises of all time. The Jerry-Mahal, the Boss Hog Bowl -- whatever you call it -- the hand of the owner is everywhere. Of all of the crazy stats, one that illustrates the size of the venue and the depth of Jerry’s will to make it pay, is the standing room only seats, many whose only view of the game is on big screen televisions that are scattered around the stadium like trash cans. These SRO tickets and the food and merchandise revenue that they produce top $3 million dollars for most events.

Now, the Super Bowl juggernaut is about to sweep through North Texas. In one month, Jerry will play host to a 120,000 NFL elites, media and a few fans in what is still the single biggest annual circus worldwide. One of the biggest stars of this Super Bowl will be Jerry World. They won’t be able to stop talking about it and Jerry will be wistfully grinning throughout the entire two weeks.

Wistful because for all his dreaming and scheming and macro-thinking and micro-managing, what Jerry wanted, Jerry didn’t get. His beloved Cowboys are not playing. Jerry’s plan was not just to host the Super Bowl but to have the home team in the Super Bowl. For all of the success of Jerry the owner, Jerry the General Manager has failed miserably to put a consistent competitive product on the field since the end of the Super Bowl runs in the early 90’s. Money and people will be pouring into the area for a massive party but the heart is gone from the event. North Texas football fans after seeing their team stumble out of contention early in the season seem lock-jawed into a January yawn. But for an event like the Super Bowl, the common folk don’t matter anyway. We never had a chance to get tickets. We’ll just sit at home and watch the well heeled football fans gawk at the spectacle of Jerry’s World.

a peppermint in my pocket

Mr. Peppermint is my father. I shouldn’t tell you this, but you’re my friends and I want you to know. It’s a secret. You can’t tell anyone. That’s why he never comes to parent teacher night. See, he plays Mr. Peppermint on TV and it is hard for him. If he goes out in regular clothes people bug him and say, “Where’s the Peppermint suit and the candy cane and the flat top straw hat?” and if he goes out dressed as Mr. Peppermint, then kids run up to him and say, “May I please have a peppermint?” or “Gimme a peppermint!” or “Who are these kids?” “Where are their peppermint suits?” and he just can’t be a regular Dad…

I told this story in the din of the Reinhardt Elementary School lunchroom. Although related in strict confidence, a teacher seated at the same long lunch table a couple of kids down and across from me clearly heard with her Super-Sonic-Teacher-Ears. Her stare became a glare of disbelief – not that I would lie, everyone knew I was in my “own little world” and prone to “stories”– but that I would dare to tell such a preposterous story. She continued to look at me as though I had just lost my mind, as she loudly scooted her chair back, stood and carried her tray away.  Later, I saw her laughing in the hall with another teacher and they both turned and gave me a look as I passed. I felt bad about continuing to tell this lie over the next several months, mostly because I knew Mr. Peppermint would be disappointed in me.

Mr. Peppermint was, of course, a fictional character played by the great Jerry Haynes, an announcer with WFAA Channel 8, when, in 1961, he started a live hour of morning TV for kids. I was there from the very beginning. Mr. Peppermint was a soft spoken, sweet natured, patient fellow, who had a lot of puppet friends, went on adventures, had a magic candy cane and played folk songs on his guitar and sang. What more could a boy want in an ideal fantasy dad? When he did personal appearances, like at Sandy’s Red Goose Shoes in Casa View Shopping Center, a hundred kids showed up. Yet, he had a peppermint in his pocket for every kid, even though the peppermint pocket never bulged. It was magic the way a sad or shy child would brighten at the sight of a lanky red and white man passing out red and white candy. Mr. Peppermint was the kind of guy who made you want to remember to say Please and Thank You and No, Sir and Yes Ma’am. In a world where the father that I loved could turn highly irrational and violent in a moment, Mr. Peppermint was a tangible example of kindness and respect.

I retrospect, the proximity of personal and societal stress points in the early 60’s, such as the Cuban Missile Crisis, touring model bomb shelters and storing food in closets, my parents divorce, and the assassination of John F. Kennedy in my hometown just a few miles from my home, could possibly have had something to do with the creation of Mr. Peppermint as a fantasy father figure. At school, they had our parents fill out cards with questions like: “In case of a nuclear attack by the Ruskies and your family is completely wiped out, list three chums that your child can go live with.” Then they taught us duck and cover and started taking us to the darkened film room where they combed our hair with a purple light. Someone said they were looking for Russian spy’s. Later we found out the real enemy was head lice.  First, second and third grade were terrifying in their strict construct of absolute normalcy. It was really quite noble but clearly all adults had taken the vow, “DO NOT, under any circumstances, frighten the children.” Twilight Zone, the early TV show, is far stranger now, as the show’s tone of strained awkwardness and foreboding of weirdness, is exactly how adults acted in those tense days.

My relationship with Mr. Peppermint changed though on Nov. 22, 1963. I had been at school for about an hour when I suddenly imagined that I didn’t feel well. The teachers had pretty much given up on me at this point and so I was sent to the clinic. When Mrs. Herrick, the school nurse, stepped out of the clinic, I would rub the thermometer on my pants leg for a few seconds and pop it back in my mouth. After consulting my mom who was a teacher several miles away, I was on my way home. My big brother, 6 years older, was home sick also and they reasoned he could watch me. So, the school secretary, a woman who purported hid the Principal’s “Electric Paddle” from authorites, escorted me to the back door of the school and observed as I walked three houses down the street to where we lived. I felt like a man released from prison. They let me just walk out. I wanted to run and dance and scream but I walked in as sickly a manner as possible, barely controlling my glee.

My brother’s first words were “You’re a faker – you’re not sick. Leave me alone.” I settled in front of the TV with a blanket. There were cartoons on a local channel and I watched those while drifting in and out of a nap. I awoke to one of my favorite old cartoons, the 1936 Max Fleischer classic, “Christmas Comes but Once a Year” (see youtube). Half way through, the TV screen went blank and silent for a moment and the words, “News Bulletin” appeared on the screen. I don’t remember the exact words but I understood from the voice speaking, “News Bulletin” just remained on the screen, that the Governor or the President or his wife had been shot, Gangsters in a  motorcade had come wheeling around a corner firing bullets. Everyone had heard it and there was panic and the first lady tried to run away, too. Then they roared away and the police were chasing them. I ran for my brother.

“I told you to leave me alone.” “But Jay, they just came on the TV, the President, somebody shot him,  there was a motorcade of gangsters with sniper tommy guns, Downtown…” I was blathering word phrases that I had never known, but his face grew serious and sweet and he said, “you’re confused, it’s okay, lets see what’s going on.” He joined me in front of the TV. He switched the TV to Channel 8. Within seconds, there was Mr. Peppermint – only he was Jerry Haynes- not dressed in Peppermint but flustered and out of breath and confused. It was the first time I had ever seen Mr. Peppermint dressed as the regular guy that I had pretended he wasn’t. It was more fun to just pretend he was living in my fantasy world. But now, that would never be possible again. Mr Peppermint was the guy who would play children’s games and teach you to draw funny pictures but Jerry Haynes had to tell you the truth.  Jerry had been there and heard the shots and interviewed people and they said it was horrible, the President had been shot and then he ran 3 blocks and came right on the air. Jerry was not a newsman but all of the news staff was out covering the President and no one was in the studio but him and he apologized for being so out of breath and he cautioned all to hope that the early reports were mistaken and WFAA would bring us more facts as they became available. Well, the rest is just too terrible and too familiar. We all know how it ended.

Years passed, I grew up in a city that struggled mightily to throw off the terrible reputation of being a city of hate. It was a hard sell. Dallas was a city with a big wide streak of mean. The year before JFK, Adlai Stevenson spoke in Dallas and John Birch Society members, unable to shout Stevenson down, had stormed the podium, swinging placards and trying to incite violence. The rest of the country blamed Dallas for the assassination so the mean streak suddenly had a chip on its shoulder. The headlines of the Cleveland Plain Dealer Sports Section on the Sunday after the assassination, read Browns 24 Assassins 17.  Dallas was, of course, a racially divided city. A Dallas Cowboy had to file a federal lawsuit to stop red lining and Dallas schools were forced to desegregate in 1972, long after Little Rock and most of the South. But, Dallas mellowed and changed as time passed, eventually named an All American City, won a Super Bowl and Mr. Peppermint got syndicated nationally with a show called “

Peppermint Place

”. While I was long past watching, I took great pleasure that others recognized Mr. Peppermint’s value in the lives of children and wanted to see that continued.

Though I never intended to, it worked out that my wife and our young family did settle back in Dallas, very much in the same old neighborhood where I grew up on the eastern side of White Rock Lake. By then, Dallas had “America’s Team” and was known as a “Can Do” kind of city. There was even a very interesting museum in the old School Book Depository and another nearby devoted to the conspiracy theories of the assassination. I still could not pass certain buildings or places without thinking about the assassination but by and large, Dallas had placed November 22, 1963 into an appropriate perspective. I occasionally practiced law in the old Police Headquarters which had the jail where Lee Harvey Oswald was first jailed and the basement where Oswald was shot by Jack Ruby, as Oswald was being transferred to the County Jail. I couldn’t resist the urge to slip down to the basement and look at the spot where Oswald fell.

 One day, as I crossed the Mockingbird Bridge coming home from the office, I saw a man walking and I knew him instantly. It was Jerry Haynes. I wanted to stop and say something but, well, you know, that was the 7 year old in me. Now, I was a lawyer and it was getting late and my wife and kids were at home waiting. I would occasionally see Mr. Peppermint in movies or articles about him would appear in magazines. I always felt like I was catching up with one of the happy memories of my mostly bruised childhood. Now deep into my Dad role, I was fascinated to read that Mr. Peppermint’s son had flourished under Mr. and Mrs. Peppermint’s parenting, becoming a music icon as the driving force behind the band, the Butthole Surfers. 

A few years later, I was at the grocery store and I spotted Mr. Peppermint looking at canned tuna. I had to think if I dared to approach him, so I kept moving and weighed my opportunity. As I rounded an aisle, a young mother with a long braided pony tail and wearing Birkenstocks was struggling with a toddler trying to run off and create chaos and another fussy young one in the basket. As she wrestled with her runaway she raised her hand to swat and then thought better but I could see her about to boil over. It was sort of awkward and as I looked away, I realized I was right in front of the bulk candy and my eyes fell on the bin of peppermints. I had a plan.

 I dropped a quarter  in the sample box and took four peppermints out. I turned back to the mom and said, “Excuse me ma’am. I saw you were having trouble, whew, I’m a parent too and I know how hard it is. I thought maybe the kids would like a Peppermint…if you want...just distract them for a minute…” I was ready for the “How dare you…” but instead she said “Oh thank you. Hey look kids…” The kids instantly brightened. “And here’s one for you”, I said. “Oh, well…” she hesitated, suspicious just for an instant of my forwardness, but she saw I was being nice and accepted “That’s very kind, Thank You!”  I smiled at the kids, made a little small talk and then asked her, “Listen, I know this sounds crazy but Mr. Peppermint is about 2 aisles over…” “Mr. Peppermint is here?” she interrupted. “I love Mr. Peppermint.”  I took a breath and said, “Well, would you mind, you know if run into him, giving him this peppermint and just tell him some old guy said “Thanks.” She did a short nervous laugh and said, “Sure!” I  thanked her and turned on my heels and headed for the check out.

Finally, there was another incident in a different grocery store. It was about 11:15 p.m. and we suddenly realized we didn’t have lunches for the boys the next day. So off I went to buy healthful and energizing junk for kid lunches trying to balance goodness with what they are likely to throw away or give to the kid who forgot lunch. As I approached the check out line I was aware of a customer coming from a different direction but about the same distance from the register. Normally, I might have stepped up my pace just slightly to win the race but this time I slowed and looked up and there carrying a gallon of whole milk and a package of cookies was Mr. Peppermint. He had stopped at exactly the same time and we looked at each other. He knew from the surprise on my face that I knew who he was. I immediately said, “Please go right ahead, Mr. P.” He smiled and nodded slightly and said “Thank you kindly.” My mind was racing - say something but just enough, not too much, don’t be a stalker crazy man. He’s probably sick of people like me trying to make a peppermint connection…

All of the while I was unloading my basket on the conveyer belt and Mr. P was checking out. Then for a moment we were just standing there side by side. We were sort of dressed alike in sweater and scarf and hat against the winter wind and the young checker, said, “You know, you two look like you could be related.” Mr. Peppermint and I looked at each other. “Well”, I said, “He was like a father to me.”  “That’s so kind, thank you.” he said genuinely, “That makes my night.”  I wanted to take his hand in mine. Just standing there really did make me feel like I was standing next to the Dad I had longed for. After all these years, I had been able to express gratitude to Mr. Peppermint.  He took his milk and cookies and was gone.  There really was nothing else to say. Later, it dawned on me that Jerry Haynes probably still carries a peppermint in his pocket.  

On Libertarianism: Who are those guys?

I had promised to regale the vast audience here with more stories of my imaginary life but this one could not wait. I promise the Mr. Pepermint story before Christmas!

 On Libertarianism:

In 1974, I became a libertarian. For about 15 minutes.  I had heard a presentation, done some reading, and searching for an answer beyond an unpopular war, Lyndon Johnson - Richard Nixon, and three assassinations in five years, libertarianism made a lot of sense. Reliance on self and the enslavement of a government to the benefit of a people, whose needs were negligible, had an awesome feeling of independence and revolution to it.  I could feel my beard growing long and my calloused hands around the handle of an axe, while Neil Young tended his garden next door. This is what Canned Heat meant when they sang “I'm going up the country, baby, don't you wanna go?”

   

Shortly after finding this bliss, I had two conversations with people I respected, my community college, government instructor and my high school girlfriend’s father, a banker. My government instructor was a progressive, liberal, democrat and he grew very grave when I naively said to him one day after class, “I think I figured it out! I’m a libertarian!” Socratically, he thoughtfully guided me through a number of values that he knew that I held and pointed out places where there might be some inconsistency with libertarianism. He suggested a couple of more readings and continuing the discussion.

Later that night, I spoke to Al, a principled, humble, Christian conservative, who also was later revealed as a philandering alcoholic, and asked if he had ever heard of libertarianism? He grew very grave and his brow furrowed as he spoke of Nazi’s and Japs and the necessity of the military industrial complex to protect the economic complex, which had to be big so we could all get rich enough, we wouldn’t need libertarianism. As Al had season tickets behind home plate and a ski boat, which I was welcome to use at any time, his objections struck a nerve. Without government, there would have been no ball park or lake. Right then I knew, I was not a libertarian.

If, as our fore-creatures crawled up out of the muck, or dropped down from the vegetation, or were spontaneously generated in a couple of days by a benevolent, if passive, creator, IF, the first twitch of a desire for social order, the first word spoken, had been LIBERTARIANISM, then, perhaps, we would be wired in such a way as to be able to achieve Utopious "You can leave this long haired country boy alone" Nirvana. However, one cannot undo the history of civilization, nor have we achieved much in understanding basic human meanness. Both of these would be required to approach Libertarianism.

There are a couple of things you never hear Libertarians talk about but the main one is, How does Libertarianism cope with human meanness? I'll grant that the status quo doesn't do much to prevent ass-holiness but it does give  some of the victims of it a work around. Another thing you never hear Libertarians talk about is why they are so doggedly determined to change the system from within. Why do they want to get elected to the giant government? Why are they not just writing a new constitution and using the ballot initiative to change it from the outside? Do any elected Libertarians turn down the benefits offered by the big government?

 In the Libertarian world “the market forces” prevent discrimination, collusion of power, monopolies, and other economic unfairness. Yet, their philosophy fails to grasp the historic truths that where there is diversity there has often been conflict of values and cultures. People mostly seek out their own kind for cultural, social, and economic relationships to the exclusion of “the others” and if the “other” happens to be historically disadvantaged due to, oh, say, slavery?, there really is not a way to imbue every being with the same opportunity.  This is why Rand Paul is a fool – rather, Sen.-Elect Fool. Paul recently made noise about civil rights legislation being unnecessary and used the market forces argument to assert that because black people have money, a restaurateur would an idiot for not serving them because all of the other restaurants, who did serve black people, would make more money. Apparently, Sen. Paul was too pre-occupied with fraternity pranks to have learned about the ancient times when governments in foreign and far away places like Mississippi, failed to “interfere with market forces” in civil rights, which resulted in lynching, civil rights workers murdered, and precious few, and almost always segregated, services and accommodations. If Sen.-Elect Rand could explain to me how libertarianism could have stopped Jim Crow and the KKK, I might have to reconsider my out of hand rejection of Libertarianism. Oh yeah, and he would have to explain how market forces would have desegregated schools.

Libertarians are the only perfect people. Their only flaw is expecting perfection from the rest of us. Despite my unwillingness to convert to a well-intentioned philosophy that has the unintended effect of harboring and fostering the terminally mean-spirited, I know that if Aliens came down and invaded earth they would kill everyone except the Libertarians. Then after they got to know them, they would kill them twice.

True Libertarians would like to roll back civilization and start over. The Neo-Libertarians, who are so dangerous today, hide their meanness, fear, or greed behind the veil of the misplaced idealism of this unattainable social and economic order and a very poor understanding of the Constitution. There, they wait like Sith lords though there will never be enough of them to do more than flesh wound the progress of a somewhat feeble, forward teetering government fueled by the well-intentioned electorate.