Strengthen the Things That Remain

As holidays go, Thanksgiving is simple and straightforward: it's about re-potting ourselves in our home soil. It marks the end of the harvest, the passage into winter, and the start of the holiday season that culminates in the new year. It's the day formally set aside to sit down with our families, take stock, count our blessings, give thanks and re-orient ourselves toward First Things--the day we celebrate...normalcy. Many Americans--and it is a uniquely American holiday--declare it their favorite, even though no costumes are worn, no gifts are exchanged and no specific religious event is commemorated. It is equally enjoyed by Americans of all faiths and those with none. While the trappings--the Macy's parade, the food, the football, even the Black Friday shopping to follow--absorb us, it's the family and our faith in and hope for the future upon which we focus--and that focus is reverential, because we honor what it means to be human.


The story goes that the Plymouth Colony had a poor harvest going into their first winter, even though they shared all things in common, and were rescued from starvation by their Indian neighbors, and it's true, but the rest of the tale teaches the take-home lesson. After a few such meager harvests, many deaths and spreading resentment and despair, William Bradford, Plymouth's leader, assigned each family a plot of land to call and till as its own, keeping the proceeds and ending the collective experiment. This worked out better. Come the next harvest, not only did families have enough to feed themselves through the winter, but a surplus, and held a post-harvest feast to celebrate and give thanks to Providence for their bounty and deliverance. That feast, in 1623, was the first Thanksgiving--and the lesson that Americans took to heart was that the best of all possible worlds was to own and tend one's own garden.


The lesson of Plymouth is the continuing lesson for America: tend thine own garden and never fail to give thanks for what you have. Thanksgiving is not a specifically religious holiday (although it has Christian roots), and this is not a specifically religious piece, but if we are to give thanks, to whom? The stars? Gaia? Chance? Or, ecumenically, Providence? I thank God. You know, he from whom all blessings flow? Who gives life, gives us a chance (indeed, endless chances), imbues us with free will? Those without faith may not understand, but those who have it know that faith makes everything a little easier -- easier to pinpoint your blessings, easier to carry burdens, easier to locate yourself in both the moment and the arc of a life, easier to cultivate the "attitude of gratitude" that improves those moments as a pinch of salt does nearly every dish, sweet or savory, worth eating. Gratitude concentrates the mind and fuels the spirit for the job ahead. Pilgrims, we have a big job ahead of us.


Confucius cursed us: May you live in interesting times. Today, we certainly do. For many, this year's harvest is meager compared to years past. Some believe that this nation will never again see the abundance we claimed as a birthright, not understanding that claiming it as a birthright was our first and largest mistake. Some believe that America's mission in the world was a fool's enterprise, now finished--not understanding that that mission may be just around history's corner from bearing fruit. I won't make light of it: we are in real trouble. We cry out that the American Dream is slipping away, forgetting that that dream was never about owning a home, but owning ourselves. Some would surrender liberty for security, forgetting that our extraordinary American security was the result of our liberty--and willingness to defend it. We have forgotten that every American generation stands upon Plymouth Rock, staring at a world that can always be made new.

In a song, Bob Dylan asked: When you gonna wake up? This presumes we are sleeping, and we are--even those of us who believe ourselves engaged. We pay lip service to First Things, elevate trivia, exalt our animal natures and blind ourselves to the miracles of everyday life. With all our American bounty, we've forgotten how to separate the wheat from the chaff. We talk big about freedom and carelessly toss off the words "free will," forgetting that what and why we will are far more important than how we exercise that will. We can't blame Wall Street--or Occupy Wall Street. We can't blame the 1% or the 99%. We can't even blame the government, because we have the government, today, that we deserve--because we let it happen. We have profaned what is holy; or, for those not moved by religious language, broken what is fundamental and holistic.

No, not broken, just badly bruised. Like matter, the First Things have already been created and cannot be destroyed so long as humans walk on earth. Some things are mysterious and beyond our power of understanding, but the First Things--or First Principles--of life are not a mystery. They are obvious and eternal--we will make no progress until we return to them. We will not mend the nation before we mend our ways. Nor will we return to them until we understand the power of giving thanks. Like love, thanking is a verb. It requires action. Americans act in the world; we don't sit and wait for the world to act on us. And the First Things have an added virtue: they work. Every time. Family. Industry. Courage. Foresight. Prudence. Simplicity. Faith. God helps those who help themselves, and we are His tools in the world. Good intentions are not enough, but good results never come from bad intentions. Tend thine own garden, and love thy neighbor as thyself. It s not what a man owns that defines him, but what owns him. Be prepared. Waste not, want not. Run hard, but don't hurry.

When you gonna wake up? I said...when you gonna wake up? When you gonna wake up...and strengthen the things that remain?


Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. God bless you all.

Under the Big Top: Yahoos, Zebras and the Big Tent

In a just world that made sense, no country would guarantee each and every yahoo the right to vote, regardless of his contribution to the greater good. In a just world, anyone getting free taxpayer money, whether living on the street or working on Wall Street, would be forbidden to pick the person who dispenses that money. In a just world, greasy brutes with butt cleavage and inked-up mamas in lime spandex would be turned away from the polling place in horror. But not in this world. Not in America. Here, we turn a blind eye to the obvious link between bad fashion sense and bad taste in candidates. Here, we're not permitted to profile those trying to kill us instantly with bombs or bullets; why would we be permitted to discriminate against those trying to kill us slowly with ballots? We're not. We're a constitutional republic using democratic means. In the public mind, yahoos rule and must be treated with dignity. So we have to make do. We have to curry their favor.

Don't get me wrong--democracy is a beautiful thing. I'm half for it. Let a yahoo into the voting booth and he's the equal of any Wall Street bankster, free to pull the trigger for any candidate that occurs to him. Name not on the ballot? Not a problem. If enough little monsters can be taught to write her name, Lady Gaga will be the next Leader of the Free World and wear a meat dress to her Inaugural Ball. And given our cultural state, maybe she should be, but let's not go there. There remains hope.

This is bad: a major party, the Democrats, commands the allegiance of as many tax-dependent know-nothing yahoos as possible, dead or alive, citizens or not, hiding them behind guilt-ridden glitterati, bloated unionists and a chunk of the very rich with vested interests or perverted notions of noblesse oblige. This is worse: they do it on purpose. They want more yahoos. They want a dim bulb electorate content with a daily crust and an endless circus. It suits their purpose--staying in power--down to the ground. Reasonable people might conclude that fewer yahoos would make the world a more pleasant place. Not the Democrats. To them, too many lazy yahoos is never enough. Yes, they must be fed, but they don't have to be fed well, and entertaining them is easy. Just show them pictures of other yahoos behaving badly and a good time will be had by all. And every last yahoo can vote at least once. You see what we are up against.

Which brings us to the other party, the Republicans. It has at least a nodding acquaintance with civilization, but faces a perennial chore: to peel off enough yahoo votes in order to win, and it is not getting easier as the yahoo ranks swell. It's frustrating, thankless work, because the truth is the Democrats don't do a damn thing for the yahoos. Oh, they pay a subsistence-level stipend to the most good-for-nothing yahoos to keep them off the streets, but let's face it, so do the Republicans. Someday we may figure out a better way to deal with them, but today, bribery is all we have. No real reason exists for yahoos not to vote for Republicans. In handling yahoos, the difference in the parties is more of style than substance, and purely existential: Democrats pretend to approve of the yahoos and be happy about footing their bills; Republicans do not approve and are grumpy. Democrats say "We love you just the way you are!" Republicans complain that improvement is needed. Democrats say "We are one of you!" Republicans drop some change into the cup and keep moving. Democrats say "The Republicans hate you." Republicans protest "We don't hate you. We're just indifferent." But that is not a winning message.

In order to win, Republicans are constantly tinkering with their message, trying to sway just enough yahoos to vote their way without catering to them; and changing the message means changing the messenger. Through attrition and grass-roots reorganization, by launching primary challenges against undesirable incumbents and speaking ill of the unwanted, the party purges itself of unreliable elements. After all, Republicans are supposed to be conservatives (not libertarians, not centrists--conservatives), the party of the right that opposes the left under all its aliases and disguises. Naturally, it would like to be rid of Republicans who are not conservative. This makes good sense, rather like a herd of zebras expelling fellow travelers who are actually hyenas. Hyenas may not attack right away or, being cowardly, on their own. They tend to mill around, pretending to graze. But let a Democratic lion bring down a zebra, and the hyenas are right there, sucking up to the lion, looking for leftovers. It's counter-productive to have too many hyenas mingling with the herd.

The Republican pet name for the hyena is RINO (Republican In Name Only). In hermetic pockets of the nation with a prevailing progressive ethos, like Yankeeland (the New York/New England northeast), it seems Republicans must offer RINOs to the electorate or come away empty-handed, but in most places, the RINO hunt is on. Efficiency would suggest that Republicans line up RINOs, shoot them, mount their stuffed heads as a public caution and replace them with dependable conservatives, but that would be illegal and not very nice. On the whole, Republicans are nice. Democrats bleat on behalf of humanity and only pretend to be nice. Most Republicans equate humanity with crosstown traffic at rush hour, but are actually nice to three-dimensional people--or at least imbued with a quaint notion of fair play beyond which Democrats have evolved.

Which brings us to the GOP's Ringmaster in the Sky: Ronald Reagan, who commanded us to speak no ill of a fellow Republican and encouraged a "Big Tent" philosophy. What did he mean? To answer that, recall the days when Reagan rose to power. But for a few brave voices, conservatism was regarded as already moldering on the ash heap of history. The rout of Goldwater was seen as its last spasm of life, rather than the first robin of spring. The progressive assumption reigned; world-wide top-down rule by experts was regarded as inevitable. Emerging from the Great Depression, the New Deal and World War II, government was a kindly force that would grow ever broader and deeper, the go-to guy of first resort--no job too large or small. Uncle Sam? No, Big Daddy Sam, and Mama Sam, and little Sammy bureaucrats running wild, but not to worry: one day soon, it would take care of everything, liberating its subjects to enjoy carefree lives. Only a few seemed to notice that that model had never worked well or long anywhere and had pretty much stopped working in America by the end of the 1950s; one of those people was Reagan.

And just as we must do today, Reagan had to play it as it lays. Then as now, job one was to win. Having been a despised minority swimming against the "progressive" tide for most of the 20th century, the conservative task was great: slow the tide, stem the tide, force the tide to ebb. To do this, the Republicans needed warm bodies--Republican butts in legislative pews, in Washington and around the country. If you were a candidate with an R trailing your name, you were golden. No ill must be spoken publicly of you by a fellow R. The goal was to get you into office, then bring you under party discipline and whip you into shape. And to win this numbers game, the GOP could no longer afford to present itself as the party of country club loungers with fat portfolios, comfortable bellies and white shoes. So the country club stretched a Big Tent to cover the whole front lawn, and erected a huge billboard that read something like this: THE REPUBLICANS: ONE BIG PARTY. Not Your Father's GOP. Hyenas and Yahoos Welcome. Giant Government, Taxes, Over-regulation and Weakness Are Bad for All Americans; Strength and Freedom Good for Everybody. Come One, Come All for Your Shot at the American Dream. You, Too, Can Wear White Shoes.

And it worked, because it was a friendly reminder of timeless American truth. Reagan was imperfect, but he was perfect for his time. If anything, given the obstacles, his success is understated. When he came, Soviet communism seemed ascendant. When he left, it was all but dead. When he came, America was a pitiful, helpless giant, beset by economic malaise and blackmailed by fanatical pissants; when he left, American footsteps once more shook the earth. When he came, government was the solution; when he left, it was the problem--and is still seen that way. When he came, taxes were accepted stoically, like death; when he left, few regarded taxes as anything but a necessary evil. Reagan permanently changed the political conversation in terms of ideals and debate. When he came, we were all liberals to some degree; when he left, liberal had become the "L" word. Love him or not, let's face it, Reagan kicked butt. He not only stemmed the progressive tide, but made the waters begin to recede. Obama promised that he could control the waters, too; now he'd be happy to doggie paddle through one last year without drowning.

We are still living in the Reagan Era. The Big Tent that he conjured into existence is still standing. providing shelter for all and the greatest good for the greatest number. Republicans and Democrats alike toil in his shadow. To survive after 1994, Clinton slipped into white loafers and governed as a Republican; and, even as the Obama Moment begins to fade, twice as many Americans call themselves conservative as call themselves liberal. So what, exactly, is the problem? Why is the Republican party chasing its tail trying to pick a standard-bearer? The stars are better aligned for a smashing GOP victory in 2012 than for Obama in 2008. The Reagan message resounds as loudly as it did in 1980...or 1776. Europe is beginning to hear it. The whole world hears it. It doesn't need retooling. Reagan was just a man, and he is dead, but long live Reagan. Someone--please--pick up the banner and ride.

If you listen to establishment media, you will hear that the key to victory in any election is to attract independents--and it's true that about 40% of eligible voters have no party. Some of these independents are yahoos, some are confused, some don't give a damn, but if you believe the media, independents are moderates, refusing to swing too far right or left. And these moderates are militant--just as hot for moderation as any Marxist for the dictatorship of the proletariat. They insist upon moderation. And even more than moderate independents, the media seems to adore moderate Republicans, that is, hybrid Republicans who are not full-blown conservatives. What is a moderate Republican? No one is sure. Is it a Republican loved by yahoos? Is it neither zebra nor hyena, but half of each, a freakish thing that nips at its own heels as it trots? A horse divided against itself that cannot stand? In fact, the media only likes a moderate Republican until he is running against a Democrat, and only pretends to like him beforehand because history shows he stands a good chance of losing. The Republicans that win are Reagan and those who stand on the shoulders of Reagan: Bush the Elder in his first run and Bush the Younger twice, although neither adequately filled his shoes. If insanity can be defined by repeating the same action, but expecting a different result, the last candidate the Republicans should offer next year is one that does not provide a stark choice. As Osama bin Laden said "Show the people a strong horse and a weak horse, and they will choose the strong horse every time."

We'd love to persuade the yahoo that remaining a yahoo may not be in his best interest, but failing that, we can remind him that the only way he can afford to remain a yahoo is to elect leaders that will protect his sorry butt from other yahoos and keep the money tree in bloom. That requires voting for Republicans, who have proven that they know how to keep the twin ships of state and society afloat (Democrats don't even know that they are two different ships, often sailing in opposite directions). Even the yahoo will pick the strong horse, the one that can carry the burden, plow the field, go the distance. He won't really care if it has stripes.

No one denies that winning is the most important thing, but (sorry, Coach Lombardi) it's not the only thing. Granted, any Republican (sorry, Ron Paul is not a Republican) is better than any Democrat. Especially when that Democrat is Barack Obama. Never mind the NWO crowd; the difference between the two major parties is substantial, in philosophy and in practice. Forced to choose between going to hell slowly (with a puncher's chance to escape the flames) with a RINO/hyena and burning now, I'm voting for the hyena. So will almost all Republicans--and many who are not. (Exhibit A: Bush gave us Roberts and Alito; Obama gave us Kagan and Sotomayor. The defense rests.) Yet, a slim chance exists that we won't have to go to hell at all. To maximize that chance, we must elect a conservative Republican, a zebra who never changes his--or her--stripes, who never strays from or dilutes the message tested and proven by time and trial, who knows the difference between friend and foe, who stands tall and says "Prosperity is born only of freedom. Peace is born only of strength. Security comes only from people serving their own and striving in concert. Dignity comes only of honor. And the rights of Americans come only from God." That's the sign outside the Big Tent. It is a winning message. Indeed, it is the most powerful political message ever delivered to humanity. Sounded boldly again, most Americans--even yahoos (not all of whom are stupid)--will once more flock to it. Maybe it's a gamble. But these are not ordinary times, this is no ordinary election, and it is a risk that must be taken.

Copyright (c) 2011, Daniel Crocker

Blonde on Blonde

"He who fights monsters might take care lest he become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." --Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil





Let's face it, it's Christmas in July for the anti-American left, in the person of Anders Breivik. Finally, after years of insisting, against all evidence, that the American right posed a clear and present danger to the peacable republic, they have a bloody shirt to wave. Finally, they can say with a straight face that not all terrorism comes from Islam and the left. Bill Maher, Michael Moore and Barack Obama are rejoicing today. Thanks a bunch, Anders, for nothing. Do me a favor, homicidal maniacs--stay off my side.





Of course, it's a distinct possibility that the left will overplay this full house, thinking it's a straight flush. Already, they're braying in the lefty netherworld that the Norwegian butchery is the work of a Christian conservative and unmasks the true face of the right everywhere--which means that some shill on MSNBC will take up that refrain tonight. But, even though his hastily posted English language Facebook page identified him as a conservative and a Christian, Breivik is neither. He may be nominally Christian, but shows no evidence, in his life, of being practically so. He is anti-Islam, anti-Marxism and anti-multiculturalism, which is not the same thing. Nor is he a conservative, because conservatives, by definition, strive to operate within the law, which does not preclude war, but does preclude terrorism.





Yet today (as the left is wont to do), I'm going to indulge in some sympathy for the devil. Madness can be found throughout the political spectrum and in any political creed. Breivik, quite simply, is mad. He took it upon himself to fight monsters--and the jihadists, Marxists and multiculturalists are monsters, judged by their fruits--and became a monster. More monster--he seems not the sort to bring a knife to a gunfight. He stared down into an abyss, into which everything he held dear was falling; the abyss looked back into him and won the staredown.





Was it the fault of the Muslim fundamentalists pouring into Norway, straining the system, and changing the national character and ethos? They were, after all, just being what they always were. Or was it the fault of his countrymen in power, in the person of the socialist Labor party, who allowed it first and continued to appease and allow it in the face of increasing unrest? Before taking leave of his senses, Breivik sensibly concluded the latter. He decided to attack the problem where it lived. He might have detonated his nitrate bomb in a Muslim quarter in Oslo, rather than target a government building. He might have become a one-man execution squad in a crowded mosque, rather than an enisled socialist youth camp (where a pro-Palestinian Arab rally had been held, by the way, just the day before). But those actions would likely have stirred up sympathy for those Breivik wanted out of his country, so he faced the beast and took aim at those he felt were truly responsible. Rather than nominal Christian against Muslim, culture against culture, pale against swarthy, Breivik attacked blonde on blonde. And his clear message was this: if the present state of affairs is not stopped and reversed, Norway's leftist powers-that-be will pay and pay dearly. From today on, it's no longer about politics in the abstract. Today, the discomfort of the Norwegian people becomes real for you, and ignoring them will cost you your very skins and the lives of your children. Breivik suffered from the subterranean homesick blues and was bringing it all back home.





Now I, myself, like Brievik, am vehemently anti-jihad, anti-political and cultural Marxism, anti-multiculturalism--these things have never been anything but a scourge upon the land that must be eradicated--so Breivik's thinking is not hard to understand. But it is mad, and madness often makes its own perfect sense--until it ultimately crashes into the stone wall of reality. In reality, both Christianity and conservatism insist that force of arms is the last resort, and when necessarily used, be used justly and in proportion. In reality, the tactics of the world's bloodthirsty jihadis have all the real power on earth aligned against them. They may fight on for years and kill thousands, even millions--if they get lucky or we let our guard down--but they will lose. In reality, no matter what the lefty opportunists say, Breivik is mad, a traitor to the cause, a bringer of darkness, a monster fighting monsters in his mind and a creature of the abyss.

True Believer

A 30-foot flagpole stands behind my house. Two flags fly from its top, day and night, never taken down: Old Glory, and beneath it, the Navy Jack--a rattlesnake stretched across a field of red and white stripes above the words "Don't Tread On Me." I mutely pledge allegiance to these flags almost every morning at sunrise, while standing on the deck with my first cup of coffee. The house sits on land thick with trees. The flags cannot be seen from the road, but they are not for public display. They are for me, because I'm a true believer.

I'm not a pious man. I'm easily seduced by beauty and daydreams, by the pleasures of women and song (and a little wine, too), and when angry, which is often, I turn the air blue. I'm flawed, and not pious, but I am a religious man. Not conspicuously, but I live in a state of repentance and go to church, come hell, high water or impending kick-off, and wear a tie and jacket when I do, out of respect. I don't look down on those who don't wear their Sunday best (at least they're there), but I wish they did. If Christ can hang on a cross and die for my benefit, wearing a tie for an hour is the least I can do. Although I can't prove it and don't try, that God actively exists has been proven to me to my satisfaction and the comfort is unspeakable. I'm a true believer.


I've always had intimations of immortality and a palpable sense of something more. Keeping faith--in God, country, with family and friends and community--comes naturally. I'm made for love. I'm a family dog. What's on my mind comes out of my mouth more quickly than it should. I wear my heart on my sleeve because I can't hide it and have nowhere else to put it. I can't help it and don't care who likes it. I'm a true believer.


I'm a fortunate son, born on the path of least resistance. I've never felt unloved, nor burdened with more than I could carry. My parents--and their parents--were always there for me and stayed together until death. I've gotten all I deserved and most of what I wanted. I've never been anything but free to go where I wished and to succeed and fail on my own terms, and to learn from both. It took me some time to understand that I should always swim in gratitude, but the light came on and made me a true believer.


I was born in the greatest nation humanity has known, or perhaps can know. It is blind and ahistorical to deny American exceptionalism, for we have been the light of the world. We neither deny nor fight human nature, but accommodate and encourage the best of it to come out, knowing that, without the strife of freedom, this is impossible, while with it, little is impossible. We are different colors, hold different creeds and compete in a tumultuous marketplace, but in times of trouble, an almost reverent unity has shone through. We're hungry, frivolous consumers--need machines rioting down the open road--but at bottom, Americans know what really matters. Beneath our getting and spending, we have an instinct for virtue. And I'm not sure that, ultimately, we don't love one another, and that, in the end, we're not a nation of true believers.


Independence Day is for fellowship, remembrance and renewal. Today, a parade will pass me. Boots will tromp, drums will pound, my blood will stir. It happens every time. Flags will pass, my throat will clench, my eyes might water. Despite all the empty houses and idle workers, despite empty, idle promises and feckless leaders and blood-crazed barbarians at the gates, I remain very proud to be an American. Tomorrow, we will resume the struggle to ensure that America's future springs from the same source as her past. My spirits will rise and fall, but I believe we will win this struggle, because we have proven to be the noblest of people. We have been great because we have been good. We will be good again, when we have to be, but my faith in this, like faith itself, is inexpressible. So, with you, I'll just drink it in and breathe freedom. Because where I live, people dream and good things happen, and where I'm going, trouble cannot follow. I'm a true believer.











Copyright (c) 2011, Daniel Crocker. All rights reserved.

Rolling Thunder

For Sarah Palin, it is once again the Day and Night of Long Knives. Yesterday's appearance at the annual Memorial Day weekend Rolling Thunder biker's rally to call attention to veterans' issues brought forth hosannas from Palin boosters and streams of venom from her detractors. Any who thought that Palin's utility as a lightning rod might have diminished must think again. She's baa-aack!

As soon as news of her attendance broke, MSNBC's increasingly Eleanor-Cliftish Andrea Mitchell could not wait to get Ted Shpak, Rolling Thunder's national legislative director, on camera to poor-mouth Palin. Shpak's political affiliation or sympathies are not yet public knowledge (but soon will be); regardless, there is no reason to doubt his passion for his cause--all board members and officials of Rolling Thunder are unpaid volunteers. Steered by Mitchell, Shpak insisted that, while anyone can ride, Palin had not been invited, that she might be guilty of cynical self-promotion and that her presence would distract from the meaning and importance of the event. Maybe Shpak simply felt he was doing his job. There is no doubt that NBC was doing its job--or rather, its duty--which is to slide on Obama knee pads and shill for the president. (I miss the good old days when left-wing media simply spun the truth--now they spin campfire tales out of imaginary wool to scare the childish portion of the American electorate.)

Let's face it, there was no story here--and a supposed news organization with NBC's resources must have known it. In fact, Palin has had a standing invitation to Rolling Thunder for some time. Last year, she declined, citing a conflict. This year, Rolling Thunder board member emeritus Mike DiPaulo asked again, several months ago. The Palin organization, represented by Joe Fields of the Alaska Veterans Advisory Council, asked if the invitation was still open, DiPaulo said it was, and Palin accepted. There's no fire. Indeed, there's no smoke. Palin did not crash the party. That Shpak may have been in the dark about her appearance is not Palin's fault. Christine Colborne, media director of Rolling Thunder, confirms that any misunderstanding was entirely due to miscommuication caused by logistics--and NBC could have cleared this up with a few phone calls before rushing Shpak on air.

In fact, in order to raise the profile of the organization and its issues, celebrities are encouraged and often invited to ride in Rolling Thunder. Most decline--and those who accept do not have Palin's star power. If Shpak had no ulterior political motive for criticizing Sarah, then he must have concluded that she was too big a star and would overshadow his event. Does that make sense? The actual result of Sarah's short ride? The riders with her loved it and Palin spent about twenty minutes afterward in the middle of the crowd, clad in black leather and bucket helmet, pressing the flesh and working retail. Everyone in the United States now knows about Rolling Thunder and its mission. Since publicity is the annual pilgrimage's reason for being, who owes who an apology?

But it's a new day and the world has moved on--and so does Palin's bus tour. Was her appearance a mere photo op, albeit mutually beneficial? Well, breaking news: Palin is a politician--and she may be running for president. While she has never been anything but fervent in her support for the troops--especially veterans--and did nothing hypocritical, she could not have been unaware that her presence would cause a stir. But consider this: Obama is also a politician, also running--perpetually--for president. While Palin was riding, he was speaking in tornado-torn Joplin, MO. When floods devastated Nashville, he never said a word. He took his sweet time getting down to the Gulf Coast after the BP oil spill. Tornados and floods have been tearing up the south all season--no Obama. All this tragedy and ruin came down on red states. But yesterday in Joplin, he spoke as pastor-in-chief, dusting off his church cadences of faith and hope and undying brotherhood. Missouri is a swing state, critical to his chances. Was Obama's sermon shameless, cynical, political self-promotion? You tell me.

Operation Rolling Thunder was a 3-year (1965-68) bombing campaign waged by US forces against North Vietnam, abandoned in stalemate because of the air defense weapons provided to the north by communist allies. The Rolling Thunder Revue was the name of Bob Dylan's famous tour of 1975-76. Rolling Thunder was the name of a 1977 movie about a war hero's revenge starring William Devane. But "rolling thunder" was originally the name given by the Shoshone Indian tribe for "speaking the truth." So let's roll some thunder.

Sarah Palin inspires extremes of high emotion. Those who love her sometimes adore her with a passion bordering on unreason. Those who hate her loathe her with a passion that is usually embedded in unreason. I think I know why; that is grist for another mill. Yesterday, she was wrongly beseiged--and two comments from opposing sites distill the two main reasons why. On the lefty site Rumproast, a comment read: "I can't help but be constantly pissed off at how much she's getting for so little." On the right-wing Free Republic, a troll posted this: "Haha! Damage done, gasbags!" But Sarah herself, in her offhanded way, summed up the reason she arouses passion in a few words. When asked if she expected future events to be so loud, she crowed "Oh, I hope so. I love that noise. I love that smell of emissions!"

That's the nut of it. Sarah Palin is what used to be called a "man's woman," but with a list of "feminist" achievements, and seems to be delighted with her synthesis of both roles. It is, potentially, a lethal political combination--either for her, or for her enemies. Her statement echoes another famous pronouncement, made by Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now. "Aaah. I love the smell of napalm in the morning! It smells like....victory!" For Sarah Palin, the game is on.

What's Love Got To Do With It?

I am not bound, this year, by the chains of romantic love. I'm not "in love" with anyone; more important, no one is in love with me. So, I am without Valentine's Day responsibilities. Having been married, betrothed or--yes--cocooned in cohabitation for all but a few seasons of my adult life, I'm still getting used to this delicious freedom. No one is expecting anything from me--not even a card, much less a Godiva sampler. I need lay no sacrifice on the altar of love.

St. Valentine himself (and, actually, there was more than one) had little to do with romantic love. Historically, Valentine was a Christian martyr, jailed for his religion by pagan Roman emperor Claudius II. In conversations, Claudius II tried unsuccessfully to convert Valentine to his gods, but Valentine instead tried to convert Claudius to Christianity, and for this was executed. Before his execution, he is said to have performed the miracle of giving sight to the jailer's blind daughter. Hence his sainthood.

Since there's little romantic fodder in this, the history has been embellished and may or may not be true. Claudius II, believing that married men made poor soldiers and wishing to grow his army, ordered that young men remain single. Valentine, a priest, subverted this law, secretly marrying young men and women. It was this romantic outlawry for which Valentine was supposedly imprisoned in the first place. Nevertheless, don't blame St. Valentine's Day as we know it on St. Valentine. Blame Geoffrey Chaucer.

In Parliament of Fools (1382), Chaucer wrote: "For this was Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate." The poem was written to honor the first anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II to Anne of Bohemia (they were both 15 when wed). Shortly thereafter, in 1400, a High Court of Love was established in Paris to deal with violations of the code of courtly love, specifically betrothal contracts, betrayals and violence against women. The judges of this court were chosen by women on the basis of a poetry reading, and things haven't been the same since.

The notion of courtly love itself grew out of medieval knighthood's code of chivalry. Sir Knight carried Milady's favor--a scarf or scrap of cloth--into battle, as often as not tied around his lance (any Freud-inspired jokes that might blossom here in a reader's mind are entirely the reader's responsibility, but we might assume this is also the root of what we today call "sexual favors"), to remind him of whom and for what he was fighting. Hence the phrase "undying love." Sir Knight is vowing that the only way his love will die is if he does. If then. Milady will wait, faithfully, forsaking all others, yearning for his return and warming herself with the torch of his love until he does. And if he does not, their love is bound in heaven.

Which, somehow, transports us to the mall, where you are a man, wondering what the hell to buy. Unless you have the talent to design one yourself, complete with customized sentiments and perhaps a coupon redeemable for something that is your business, a simple card won't cut it. And even if you have the talent, you can only get away with that once. Most don't, and "Love Ya, Honey" scrawled in crayon on a construction paper heart is only cute in kindergarten. Flowers are a reliable stand-by, but don't rely on them. Or at least not solely. As a man of some experience in these things, save the flowers for occasions when they are not expected. (Note: as a substitute for flowers, do not get her a potted plant, calling it a symbol of the sturdiness of your love. I know--plants don't wither in a week--but a plant requires regular care and she's already taking care of you. Don't remind her of that. Wrong message.) Do not get her a filmy construction of sweet nothing from Victoria's Secret. She may admire it and even enjoy modeling it, but deep down, she knows it's really for you. And so do you. For goodness' sake, do not buy her chocolates. Of course she likes chocolate--who doesn't?--but plan ahead. Do you want this to be you? "Here's a big old heart--just like mine--full of chocolates. Next year, I'll buy you a WIDE LOAD sign and a little beeper so you can let folks know when you're backing up." And never mind the sales pitch tsunami--do not get her a teddy bear. Sure, she likes things that are cute and cuddly and remind her of babies, but she herself is not an infant. Do not get her pajamas--they're nothing more than Appalachian-style long johns with feet--but if you do, make sure they also have a trapdoor seat for those extra cold mornings in the outhouse. Basically, you're left with jewelry, which for most men is like being marooned, incommunicado, on a barren planet. With jewelry (where even the cheap stuff costs more than candy), the line between good taste and bad is invisible and the odds do not favor you. Nor can the salesclerk be trusted, so proceed at your own risk and be prepared to leave behind a limb.

Here's a better idea. Remember her in some small way, of course, but this St. Valentine's Day, give her back yourself. With the flowers that die, give her a man that never quits. With the see-through teddy designed to get your attention, give her a guy that pays attention. With the candy, give her sweetness; with the teddy bear, tenderness; with the footie pajamas, security. More than a costly investment of a bauble of rare stone, she wants to know that someone exists that is fully invested in her. Don't give her words on a card, give her facts on the ground.

Do you like being a man? Then be one--in full--but it takes courage. You want to wear the pants? Then put them on, one leg at a time, and get busy. Do you want to lead a family into the future? Then lead. No one's stopping you but yourself. A woman will follow--and fight ferociously alongside--a righteous man (and here I am not speaking of religion). Are you saddened by the cheapness of sex, the emptiness of promises made by vendors, politicians and lovers, and the godawful gaudy tawdriness that suddenly seems to lie at the heart of things? Then make a difference, as an army of one. Do you wonder why all the ladies seem to have vanished from the world? Do you wish that chivalry wasn't dead? Then stop your crying and be a knight. The world does not lack for dragons. Nor women who would love to be ladies.

All that said, my best wishes go out today to all who are in love. Love is a madness every bit as potent as its evil twin grief, taking us out of ourselves and persuading us to behave oddly and do things out of the ordinary--and sometimes outside our interest. But it is a fine madness. Like grief, love shatters mundane existence and tells us the truth: we are not meant to be alone. We're not made that way. Indeed, we are made for heaven, of which romantic love provides a taste and vision. What's love got to do with it? Everything--and I don't care what it is. So, lovers, I salute you. Use this day to remember the passion and promises that brought you together. And what God has made, let no one rend asunder. I am not in love today. I am free of chains. I have no promises to keep. But I wish I did, and I wish I was.

Six Rules for the Singing of "The Star-Spangled Banner" (An Open Letter to Christina Aguilera)

1. Don't try to be a singer that you're not. Roseanne Barr--and yes, Christina Aguilera--I'm talking to you. Christina, you are not Whitney Houston. Roseanne, you are not Josh Groban, and if I were you, I'd steer clear of even Happy Birthday.

2. Francis Scott Key wrote specific lyrics 200 years ago. Don't try to improve on them. And if you don't know the words to the first commonly sung verse--and call yourself an American--you ought to be ashamed. There's a time in life when these lyrics should be learned. We call it second grade. If, in the middle of singing, you draw a blank (Christina, you are only the latest, not the first, to suffer this shame. It happened to Robert Goulet, too, back in the day.), do not simply repeat the line you last remember singing. Which, for all you know, might be from a different song. (Imagine, for instance. "Imagine there's no countries..." does not fit well into any national anthem.) And don't try to make people forget your mistake by gargling gibberish or by adding a bunch of notes that aren't there (see Rule 3) or by doubling down on the drama (see Rule 4). Most Americans know the words and are not as stupid as you think they are. You're better off humming until the lights come back on.

3. Mr. Key also wrote specific notes. Sing his, not yours. Again, you can not improve on them. If you think you can, with all the emotional freight they carry, you are delusional. The time (Christina) for self-indulgence is when you are by yourself--perhaps in the shower--when you may feel free to mangle any song as you see fit. You are not Jimi Hendrix's Stratocaster and the Super Bowl is not Woodstock. Aim for the note--and only that one note--as written, not a riff of six or seven of them that are sort of in the neighborhood.

4. The Star-Spangled Banner carries all the necessary emotional baggage all by itself. It's a simple song, really--however tricky to sing well (as you now know, Christina)--conveying one simple image: the flag of the fledgling nation, flying over a beseiged fort at twilight, survives a tumultous night of battle and still flies when morning comes. Metaphorically, it suggests that that banner, the symbol of the nation, will keep flying, unconquered, come what may, because it is infused with the American spirit of freedom and courage. Your job (Christina) is to deliver and renew that message of faith and hope. It's a strong message. It doesn't need your help--only your sincerity.

5. It is the National Anthem, not a cattle call. To be asked to sing it publicly is an honor. It is not an audition for American Idol, wherein one feels the urgency to show J-Lo all one's chops in ninety seconds. It's all about dignity and passionate restraint, not love gone wrong. Plus, it is a song for all Americans, not just white people (note to narcissistic black singers and their pale imitators (Christina): it's your song too. As a percentage of the population, there were at least as many black Americans at the time it was written as there are today, so stop mucking it up.) Nor is it a war song (note to the dovish: yes, rockets glare and bombs burst--as they are wont to do--but it is about an indomitable people and the ideals they live by, not an ode to violence). It is a hymn asserting that we will rise above all obstacles and should be sung in that spirit.

6. Unless you are Whitney Houston or Josh Groban (or comparably gifted), do not go for the Big Finish. (Sadly, yes, Christina, this means you.) Our anthem ends with an upbeat, dramatic, emotional flourish as written, without embellishment, but if you can jump an octave on "free" (as in "o'er the la-and of the free-EEE")--a feat that's usually managed by an accompanying trumpet, by all means do so. People love that and it's in good taste. But if you are not sure you can hit that note, because you are an alto (Christina), do not gear up for it and then lose your nerve at the last possible second. This is anti-climactic and makes you look foolish--and the wrong note can be held until you turn blue and still sound like a siren.

The tragedy, Christina, is that you are not without talent like so many of your peers. The truth is that I feel kind of sorry for you right now--humiliation is a heavy cross to bear. And the up side is that your talent may well bring you another opportunity. When it comes, I hope these simple rules help you knock it out of the park.