October 18, 2010 - October 11, 2010
Monday, August 31, 2009
Reaganite as Beltway insider. Anybody
got a hatpin? A balloon needs
. The conservative elites think the problem is
between intelligent, well educated professionals and vulgar extremist amateurs
Flyover conservatives think the problem is between lefty extremists and
Americans. Who's right?
Well, it damn sure ain't the Bruce
in the debate. Herewith, a fisking:
Why I Am Anti-Republican
by Bruce Bartlett*
I got an e-mail from a prominent Republican asking why I am so
anti-Republican these days. Since many of my friends ask the same thing
I thought I would share my reply:
I think the party got seriously on the wrong track during the George W.
Bush years, as I explained in my Impostor book. In my opinion, it no
longer bears any resemblance to the party of Ronald Reagan. I still
consider myself to be a Reaganite. But I don’t see any others anywhere
in the GOP these days, which is why I consider myself to be an
independent. Mindless partisanship has replaced principled
conservatism. What passes for principle in the party these days is
“what can we do to screw the Democrats today.” How else can you explain
things like that insane op-ed Michael Steele had in the Washington Post
Bartlett doesn't see any other Reaganites in the GOP these days.
Perhaps because he's only looking in Washington among, you know, the
PhD. set. I mean, where else would you look for them? Certainly not among
ordinary citizens who are taking to the streets to demand a return to
limited government, lower taxes, and less interference in our personal
lives and liberties.
And what's this crap about "mindless partisanship"? Who's he talking
about here? The jelly-spined howdy-doodies
in Congress who can't bring
themselves to criticize our leftist president by name, who keep talking
compromise on his most outrageous policies, even when those policies
represent the most violent leftward lurch in the history of the
American republic? Like, maybe the generation busting stimulus would
have been okay if it were only $500 billion instead of $800 billion
with a couple tax cuts thrown in for good measure? And who exactly is
it who's doing whatever they can "to screw the Democrats today"? I
haven't seen them. Not in
Congress. Not in DC. Not in the GOP. What the fuck is he talking about?
He's a Reaganite? Give me a goddam break. Reagan would be screaming.
It's not about screwing Democrats. It's about heading off a total
hijack of the constitution and the country, and Republican politicians
are not involved
preventing it. How is that "screwing" the Democrats?
uh, and Michael Steele's "insane op-ed." Insane? All that's mildly
crazy about it is the degree of compromise it represents with respect
to current government spending on Medicare. Given that the Obama
administration is seeking to nationalize one-sixth of the American
economy, with a clear objective of paying for it on the backs of senior
citizens, how is it "insane" to declare that Republicans still believe
seniors have "a right to life" that should be protected, even if the
only quick and dirty way to assure that is to vow no cuts to Medicare?
I am not alone. When I talk to old
timers from the Reagan years, many express the same concerns I have.
But they all work for Republican-oriented think tanks like AEI and
Hoover and don’t wish to be fired like I was from NCPA . Or they just
don’t want to be bothered or lose friends. As a free agent I am able to
say what they can’t or won’t say publicly.
I'll bet you're not alone. You and all the other old-timers who are so
dialed in to "politics as usual" that they can't recognize a true
existential threat to the country when they see it. They hate all the
"screwing" that's going on. The way all
old men hate screwing they can't manage themselves anymore. But their
"principles' are showing. The real ones. They don't want to get fired
from their Georgetown jobs. The way you were, Bruce. Poor Bruce.
I think the Republican Party is in the
same boat the Democrats were in in the early eighties — dominated by
extremists unable to see how badly their party was alienating moderates
and independents. The party’s adults formed the Democratic Leadership
Council to push the party back to the center and it was very
successful. But there is no group like that for Republicans. That has
left lunatics like Glenn Beck as the party’s de facto leaders. As long
as that remains the case, I want nothing to do with the GOP.
Let me get this straight. The Republicans are in the grip of
extremists, and the Democrats aren't
You're not only no longer able to get it up, you've got Alzheimer's
too. And I can prove it. If you knew anything at all about Glenn Beck,
you'd know that he spends almost as much of his "lunatic" air time
trashing Republicans as he does Democrats. He's not concerned about
party politics. At all. He's concerned about the possibility of a
leftist shadow government inside the official executive branch that's
intending to steal the liberties of Democrat and Republican citizens
alike, without any possibility of intervention by Congress. YOU HAVE NO
IDEA WHAT YOU'RE EVEN TALKING ABOUT with these kinds of ignorant
accusations and pomposities.
I will know that the party is on the
path to recovery when someone in a position of influence reaches out to
former Republicans like me. We are the most likely group among
independents to vote Republican. But I see no effort to do so. All I
see is pandering to the party’s crazies like the birthers . In the
short run that may be enough to pick up a few congressional seats next
year, but I see no way a Republican can retake the White House for the
foreseeable future. Both CBO and OMB are predicting better than 4% real
growth in 2011 and 2012. If those numbers are even remotely correct
Obama will have it in the bag. Also, Republicans have to find a way to
win some minority votes because it is not viable as a whites-only party
in presidential elections. That’s why I wrote my Wrong on Race book,
which no one read.
"I see no way a Republican can retake the White House for the
foreseeable future." Yeah. Unless the American people figure out, as they seem to be doing right now, that Obama has never
told them the truth about anything ever.
"Both CBO and OMB are predicting better than 4% real growth in 2011 and
2012." Sure. With the dollar in the tank and runaway inflation
accompanying any increase in real economic activity, even 4-percent
growth will be eaten alive by the impacts of the deficit, provided that
government borrowing, federal regulation of the private sector,
increased taxation of job-creating individuals and businesses, and a
commercial real estate crash on top of lagging reemployment numbers
don't kill growth prospects altogether. I'm convinced. Obama's golden
"If those numbers are even remotely correct Obama will have it in the
bag." Since when did you start believing the CBO and OMB? Since you
stopped recognizing the faces of your wife and children? Have you
considered Scrabble? Shuffleboard? Bingo? What's that
glamorous new Alzheimer's drug that slows down the rate at which
dementia overtakes you? Get it. Ignore the long list of side effects.
You need the medication NOW.
"That’s why I wrote my Wrong on Race book, which no one read." Awww.
Maybe Obama will pass a law that requires all of us to read it.
Bottom Line. If he ever was a Reaganite, Bruce Bartlett isn't one
anymore. He's just a very confused old fart, still hugging a
comfortable tree he can't see has been overtaken and twisted to death
by poison ivy. That's why so many oldsters
. They've outlived their 20th century wisdom. The lesson
for the rest of us is that we can't trust the ancient insiders. They're
too close. They can't see the danger. But we have
to see the danger. Our whole
future depends on it.
I've resisted thinking that
Glenn Beck's darkest fears are
correct. Ironically, essays like Bartlett's push me closer to believing
that he's right. Insanity is
in the air. When it strikes the formerly sane, that's when you know
you're flirting with the Weimar Republic model.
Truth is, we're as anti-Republican as Bartlett at this point. For
exactly opposite reasons. The frightened, big government Republicans in congress are not fighting for the country. We
need them to. Which makes them as big a problem as the Democrats, who
-- contrary to Beck's naive theories -- are all complicit in the
impending destruction of the United States. There are no innocents
here. Only degrees of treachery.
I really am starting to wonder. What does it take to wake people up? If
smart people can't be woken, what chance do the rest of us have to save
*Economist Bruce Bartlett was an
official in the Reagan and George H.W.
Bush administrations and helped President George W. Bush craft his
early tax cuts. He writes a nationally syndicated newspaper column and
for such popular Web sites as RealClearPolitics.com. Ranked number nine
on International Economy magazine's list of the most important
think tank scholars in the U.S., Bartlett is also a prolific author.
His new book, Wrong on Race, is an exposé of the racial roots
of the Democratic Party.
Just a reminder. Emergency Button here
The Metalkort, if
your scrivers. More important, bring your life.
. There are other places InstaPunkers go to have at it with
each other. Ordinarily, we don't intrude. We do what we do here, and
they do what they do there. But there are times when they're having a
better or more interesting conversation than we are. That's when we
say, hie yourselves to the Metalkort, and give them the benefit of your
attention and insight. This time, there are two posts worthy of your
attention. One already has plenty of comments (more than we usually
get) but is so educational it requires more:
is not Bosnia
Another is a splendid joie de vivre
post that should receive more input than the ultra-serious Metalkort
crowd has seen fit to give it. Shouldn't we be as supportive of
enthusiasm as we are angry about intentions of death? I think so.
(Sorry, Billy. There is
something transcendant about sport, no matter how
jaded you are.) It's about
hockey. And it's also authored by our most prolific commenter, Eduardo,
who gleams with a love of life itself that most can only aspire to.
Name the subject and he has three times as much to say about it as
Instapunk ever has. And he's not nearly so obnoxious.
here, but it's not on my mind
And for the snobs in the readership, I remind you that once upon a time
we had another hockey fan among our number, sunk in luxurious indolence
now, who wrote hilariously about "The Hockey" and the "Anyshell." Do an
'advanced search' for "Puck Punk" and you'll find some of the funniest
entries ever posted here before the arrival of Brizoni.
Simple conclusion. Into the
is cool. Where InstaPunk is depressing, Metalkort is
gangbusters. Go there. Have fun. And then report back. Unless you go to
Friday, August 28, 2009
I Say, What?
interfering with my naps.
A WORD. IF I MIGHT
. I don't mind saying, people are getting a bit
here, what? Time to dial it all back a notch, I say. Too much frou
frou, or whatever the term is. I don't mind when they make fun of me,
which they do, and I can take a joke as well as the next chap, or I
wouldn't laugh, or at least snort amicably the way I do, at
argle-bargle like this, if that's the right term, when the old man says
I'd be a cert in this event:
But, and I mean this in the kindest possible way, you people
are a bit over the top,
you know. We in the, what do you call it, "animal community" are more,
um, er, what's the word, phlegmatic?
That doesn't sound right. Does anybody have a chip? Thought not.
Where was I? A chip? Thought not.
Excuse me. Sometime I lose my train of what-do-you-call-it? What?
Which, if you don't mind my saying, there's far too much of. At
any rate, there was something I wanted to show you, if I could only
remember what it was...
Oh. This. There. You see. It makes everything marvelously clear, what?
Well, what I meant to point out is that we're not the way you show us
your adverts, now are we? Not like this anyway:
What? What? I don't mind admitting that unnerved me. Animals acting
Oh hell. Completely forgot what comes next. But you're
figure it out. That's what
you're supposed to be good at, what?
What's the word the old man keeps repeating when all I want is a chip?
Settle. That's it. I
Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for my nap, what? I say...
[ED. Well, Psmith
has nodded off. Again. And, yes, I'm his "old man." I just wanted to
clear up the "upper class twit" joke. It wasn't meant to be mean. He's
as they come; it's just that he can never remember why. But
his message about "dialing it back a notch" might very well be
appropriate. I think. What?]
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Me and the Jews
I'll start with two quotes that should explain the
why's and wherefores of this post. The first is from me:
If anyone wants it... I'll tell my own
story of how I
discovered the Holocaust and why it changed the rest of my life.
The second is from one of our most esteemed commenters, Lake:
IP, I'd very much like to hear about
your first encounter with the
Holocaust, and perhaps why Krauts was the hardest book to write. If
you're willing, that is. This is a hard thing to think about, much less
He's more on the money than he knows. It's a very
hard thing to write about. But
I'm going to give it a try. And I will
tell the story of that first encounter, but only after I have told
other stories, other facts of my long and complicated history with the
Chosen People. Some of what I relate will be difficult to tell, but
that's not the hard part. The hard part is conveying a personal
learning experience without making it seem like a lesson or, worse, a
sermon about matters that interpenetrate all our lives so frequently we
could be excused for believing that we're merely the fabric in a
needlework project, being sewn by some other into a sampler whose motto
we might or might not agree with. I'm not sermonizing. I'm recounting
my own attempt to make sense of complications and contradictions that
devil me to this day.
I was raised to be prejudiced against the Jews. Not because they were
inferior or evil or un-Christian, but because they were the only
serious rivals of the real
Chosen People, people of Anglo-Saxon and celtic descent. For my father
it was that simple. If we were the New York Yankees, they were the
Boston Red Sox, which meant that almost everything about them was wrong
or at least unacceptable. Everything different was a line of
demarcation. They were Democrats (many of them Communists). They were
ostentatious in their wealth. They had bad taste in cars and houses and
clothes. They were loud and obnoxious. They had bad manners and didn't
even know it. Everything similar was the field of competition.
They were smart, they were devoted to education, they were fiercely
competitive, they took care of their own, they had a way of enduring
storm after storm after catastrophe and still rising almost
unbelievably at the top of whatever hierarchy they were in. They were
so much like us in every important way that they were completely
intolerable because they sent food back in restaurants and made dirty
jokes in mixed company. It was absolutely unacceptable to let them beat
you in what mattered most: school.
This was relevant in my own life because after kindergarten, from first
grade through graduate school, my classmates always included a
significant percentage of very bright, very hardworking, very
competitive Jews. For reasons I will explain later, I very early
stopped seeing them as "the enemy," but I never forgot that they were
the "creme de la creme" of competition, and beating them never quite
lost its Yankee-Red Sox flavor. I'm neither proud of that nor ashamed
of it. More than my father ever was, I became a Scot pretty young in
life, and I was, if not as tribal as they were, close. I liked winning,
and it's more fun to win when at some metaphorical level, it's your
kind against their kind. I still don't see what's wrong with that.
Along the way, of course, I also picked up prejudices of my own that
had, to be fair, little to do with my father's.
[These, by the way, did not extend to individual acts of bigotry. While
he never expressed any regret of any kind about ways that he might have
failed me, my father did reveal his sense of shame -- the only one I
ever heard from his lips -- about a Jewish friend from high school who
went to the same college and was blackballed by every fraternity,
including the one my father joined. He committed suicide soon after. My
father told me, "He was the nicest, gentlest, greatest guy you could
ever meet, and he couldn't live with being ignored by his friends." My
father pointed out his picture, and his friendly message, in the
yearbook. I still remember the boy's name and photograph. And I
remember that my father repeatedly went to bat for an employee of his who
pissed off senior management for being every stereotype my father had about
Jews -- obnoxious, tactless, graceless, and remarkably brilliant. I
My prejudices? Always a romantic in the Sir Walter Scott mode, I
thought Judaism itself was boring and creepily emasculating. Those
yarmulkes and shawls. The dumb hats and curls of the orthodox. I
thought Jewish accents and inflections were jarring, nasal, Hebrew a
language of throat-clearing coughs that sounded gross compared to the
music of English. Their synagogues looked like community centers, not
holy places. Their young women wore ugly shoes and their older women
wore too much makeup and nagged in public. They offended my esthetic
senses, all of them. Although I did fall in love with Rebecca when I
. If only I could
meet one like her... which I did only much much later.
Do I seem to be protesting overmuch? Of course I am. Before I go any
farther, a few bald facts. The most beautiful girl I ever fell in love
with -- the Rebecca fantasy -- is still the most beautiful girl I have
ever laid eyes on. It was a crush that led nowhere, except to the first
of the innumerable theorems I have concocted for myself about Jews over
the years, because I am so obsessed with them and want desperately to
understand the physics of their
universe. Theorem No. 1: Nine out of ten Jewish girls are plainer than
other women, but the tenth is a beauty so dangerous civilization could
not survive more of them. My first girlfriend was Jewish. Two of my
five or six permanent male friends in adult life have been Jewish, as
well as many of the most intelligent and caring friends one encounters
in passing in a long and nomadic professional career. It was my
father (!) who told me, without any apparent irony, that if you have a
Jew for a friend, you have a friend for life. I discovered that he was
right, probably more than he ever had a chance to find out. Jews have
the power to teach you more about friendship than you (or I at least)
ever knew. Not necessarily that they are better friends, but they are
less guarded about how they feel. They are quicker to hug you (never
hugged a guy before), quicker to confront you, more interested in
hearing and telling all the emotional depths of both your lives. They
offend, oh yes they do, but they also forgive
with more depth and alacrity than most Christians. And they will give
you this gift even if you are not
the closest of friends. They know hurt and pain and doubt and splinters
of joy, and they are generous as secular priests in hearing your
confessions and granting the absolutions of shared humanity.
We Yankees don't do that. There are a lot of things we Yankees don't
do. And now I'll get specific with my metaphors. We don't do what the
current Red Sox are doing, throwing deliberate beanballs at the
opposing team. In that ancient little crackerbox of a park they play
in, where it's okay to show up like an unshowered, unshaven slob and
play the greatest game ever played like some goddamned sect of superior
"kill or be killed" animals. My first lifelong Jewish friend, who died
at forty, was also one of the cruelest people I have ever known. He had
no sense of "enough." When he targeted someone as worthy of his abuse,
he was as relentless, cunning, and perverse as a serial killer. He did
terrible things to people, and after I came to know him and his family,
I eventually understood why. But it reinforced all my old prejudices.
Visiting him at his home was like living the reverse of "Goodbye
Columbus." I could not comprehend the differences between Jewish family
life and my life. They talked frankly with one another about all manner
of topics that could never have come up in my straitlaced home -- sex,
food, food, food, each other's personal failings, the neuroses of everyone they came in contact with, and with unsparing attention to detail, bowel movements -- but they were not
devout and they were all individually isolated and alone with an
existential despair that Anglo-Saxons don't allow as a topic of even
Most of you know that I'm a writer, whether a good one or not, who
knows? But I came to agree with Fitzgerald, who postulated that Jewish
writers use their undoubted energy to make up for thin talent. Look at
the numbers. There are so few Jews (about 2 percent of the U.S.
population) and so many
Jewish writers. I despised Philip Roth, Norman Mailer, Joseph Heller,
etc, although I loved Nathanael West (Nathan Weinstein), because he was
an exception. I had a real problem with Saul Bellow, who not only
shared my birthday but also wrote some of the most beautiful sentences
I've ever read for a man who was so philosophically destitute. Actually, I eventually had to admit, Jewish writers had
no shortage of talent; they had a shortage of faith. Faith in the
ineffable beauty of mankind.
So why would Jewish writers, and Jews in general, suffer from a
shortage of faith? Why would there be self-hating Jews, misanthropic
Jews, communist Jews, Jews who regard all human personality as
pathology and write learned psychiatric papers to prove it, Jews who
wallow in piss and shit and fuck juice while they pay no mind to the
glorious breakthroughs of the Jew Einstein, who defeated time and space
to give us the possibility of a simultaneous universe in which every
single electron has meaning and purpose?
I come back, again and again, to the term "Chosen People." It's not
necessarily a blessing, is it? Any more than first born or "most
gifted" in a family is more blessing than curse. What it really means
is "singled out for extra attention," good and bad. That's who the Jews
are. They are the apotheosis of mankind. They are the archetype of our
species. They are the single longest surviving, more-or-less culturally
intact, distinct, historically continuous human tribe on earth. They
are a perfect microcosm of everything great and awful about the human
race. They are more us than any other single subset of humanity is.
More brilliant, more procedural, more intellectual, more vulgar, more
passive, more aggressive, more stubborn, more compliant, more
argumentative, more dominant, more persecuted, more physical, more
cerebral, more kind, more cruel (comedians?), more mercenary, more
generous, more wise, more foolish... and on and on and on.
At least that's how I worked it out for myself. Most of my prejudices have
imploded on themselves over the years. I used to hate it that American
Jewish men who visited Israel maybe once in their adult lives aged into
Yiddish accents that made them sound like they were doing impressions
of Catskills comedians. It doesn't bother me anymore. Now it seems to
me that they're returning as best they can to the language of the ancient middle eastern
desert, migrating back to their ancient roots in the the tribe of
Khabiri, first men to rise from barbarism into morality. Jewish mothers
and their food fetishes used to bother me. No more. They are the
constant reminder that life itself has a primally physical element and
that it's actually the female of the species which keeps the male
intellect rooted in the reality of sensation, sex, and, yes, the end-products of food, piss and
shit. Do they yell? Yes. Well, since I learned that it's okay to hug a
man, I've also learned that it's okay to yell back at a Jewish mother.
Especially if you're a Scot. (They love us Scots.)
Yarmulkes, shawls, torahs, and nutty leftwing politics don't even bother
me about Jews any more. It's our
job -- the younger sons and daughters -- to protect them from their own
excesses. They're Judy Garland. We're supposed to let her get taken for
a ride because there are parasites and perverts who take advantage of
the weaknesses inherent in her genius? It's our duty -- and the measure
of our own worth -- to keep her safe, even from herself.
I concede this is a tale of bigotry, beginning with my father, but all
of us are bigots. We all prefer our own to the others
. That's an
ineradicable element of human existence. The only important question
is, what makes it possible to bridge such gulfs between all the various
? For everyone who may
think that I was badmouthing my father, this is where I will cross you
up. My father taught me a thing we need desperately today -- a bigotry
. It's really,
honestly, completely okay to be the Yankees vs. the Red Sox. He didn't
teach me to look down on the Jews. He taught me to compete with them.
And I did. But he did not, never ever ever
did, foreclose the possibility or the ramifications of what happened
when I was six years old, on a brick sidewalk, in Salem, New Jersey.
We were first graders at an Episcopal school consisting of 26 students.
First year for the school, first year in
school for us. My best friend was Julian Jonas (his real name). I'd
been to his house, met his parents, played in his backyard. He had more
cowboy sixguns in his yard than I did. He even had a toy Winchester
.45. You could insert bullets with caps and fire them. Tremendous. I'd
have begged my parents for a gun like that if it would have done any
good. It was the first and only time I got to play cowboys and Indians
with so much hardware.
Julian also had an older brother named David. The only older brother of
a friend I had in elementary school who wasn't an asshole. David was,
well, not that I'd have described it this way then, the perfect son. He
was handsome, kind, generous with his time, somehow old beyond his
years, and possessed of a gorgeous voice, even in fourth grade. That
first year of the school, there was a Christmas gathering at which the
fourth and fifth graders sang the "Twelve Days of Christmas." David had
the part about "Five golden rings." I can still remember the stage, the
tables, the parents, the kids in awe every time David sang "five
go-o-o-o-l-den rings." Rich, pure, and resonant. It was all you could
recall afterwards. And David was never less than utterly nice to me,
his brother's friend.
Sorry if I'm slow to get to the point. Julian's and David's parents
were also nice but old. They looked twice as old as my parents. Dr.
Jonas was balding and white-haired, although his eyes still held a hint of boy
mischief. Mrs. Jonas, though, looked unwell. There was no flesh under
her skin. She was a lady made of bone. Dr. Jonas looked something like my grandfather. Mrs.
Jonas looked like his mother.
Then there was a warmish, wet day in February, long after David's stirring Cristmas
performance, when the bus delivered us to the little chapel where we
got our prayers before going to class. We walked the brick sidewalk
from the chapel to the parish house, where Mrs. Fish our teacher was
waiting, and something was wrong with Julian. I asked him what. He told
me his mother had died over the weekend. We stopped on the herringbone
brick. He struggled with the picture in his head. His mother had been
cremated. He said there was a puff of smoke and she was gone. He acted
it out for me. Once. Again. His mother was smoke.
There's nothing you can do. All children have is stunned silence. My
parents told me about the things I had seen but not known about. The
faded wrist tattoo above her clawlike hands, which I had seen but didn't
understand and which (I didn't know) Dr. Jonas also had. And something
about the camps. The Germans had put them both in concentration camps.
And now she had died. Of what?
The Germans killed the Jews for being Jews. That was the shorthand of
what I learned.
The sidewalk was damp, herringboned, we had just come from chapel and
the blessing of Christ, and I had no way of knowing that after this
semester I would never see either of the Jonas boys again for the rest
of my life. And so, to me, he is still standing there, a six year old
boy telling my six year old self and every subsequent version of myself
what it's like to witness the dissolution of the corpse of your
long-dead mother taken away from you forever.
And that's something I will never forget. I could give you details. The
wet leaves. The humble gray peak of the chapel. The comforting clump of plump kids in uniform in procession. Julian's big
From that day onward, at least part of me was a Jew. Not a good one,
maybe, but a voraciously curious and emphatically angry one.
There's another slight anecdote that verifies my final statement above.
Just so you know it's not mere rhetoric, as things sometimes are, let's
face it. About 25 years ago, I went to a computer trade show in Las
Vegas, my first one. I was one of several employees of my company
manning a booth in a vast convention center. Everything was normal,
boring, all you'd expect of a geeky trade show. The people go by, back
and forth, and you watch dully because they're all exactly who they're
supposed to be -- cocky managers, dishevelled code freaks, salespeople,
etc -- and then...
I saw him maybe 150 feet away, and the hairs rose on my arms and the
back of my neck. I was filled with an overwhelming sense of
. He was blonde but not tall, not old, not young, certainly
not Hitler youth, not a clicheed poster-child of any sort. He was, if anything, a bit rumpled and nondescript except for his eyes. I just knew
. He actually came to our
booth. And I was right about the basic facts if not the part no one
could prove. He was
he was peremptory, barking, and rude. I had to excuse myself and flee
the booth. I wanted to kill him. In the worst way.
End of anecdote. But I've never had a similar experience before or
since. I've been to Germany on business trips at least twice since then without experiencing anything like that instant visceral hostility. (Not that meeting Germans made me like them much, but I didn't feel any urge to hurt them.) You tell me what happened. I don't know.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
If you had a time machine, you could say something about him a
year from now
, couldn't you?
Or maybe even today (h/t HotAir):
could not be repulsed by this?
) Not me, anyway.