Hello, Alien

Hello, alien. Do you come in peace? I hope so, because we've had it up to here with those who don't. Don't ask to be taken to our leader, because right now we don't have one, but I'll be happy to answer any questions you may have.


Mind you, this is America. We've always been sociable, a little bit different (and frankly, a little bit better) than other countries--and plan to stay that way. New blood is almost always welcome, but we can afford to be picky. At the moment, you need us far more than we need you, so keep that in mind.


I know, I know: "America is a nation of immigrants." True enough. The ancestors of every last soul living on this big, beautiful piece of land came from somewhere else. Even those folks we mistakenly call Native Americans came from Asia--in calling them Indians, Columbus was almost right for the wrong reason--but so what? Go back far enough, that's true of most countries on earth. Humans move around, seeking greener pastures. Just like you.


Look, I can see how badly you want to move to our particular lush pasture--and I would, too, if I were you--but that's not reason enough. Look at it this way: a vagrant wants to move into the mansion on the hill, too, but someone already lives there. Somebody bought or built it, painted and furnished it, plants the flowers and pays the property taxes. Someone shelters children there and has cultivated years of memories. Now pretend that someone is you and suppose that vagrant is a great guy down on his luck. Maybe he has a family to feed. Life can be hard. You might give the vagrant a few bucks, or more than a few, if you're a good fellow, but he must move along. The mansion is yours, not his.

Now don't you dare tell me that your ancestors once owned half of my country, giving you the right to be here. They never owned it--only claimed it--amd their claim on it was no stronger than any other European colonial power. Battles were fought, deals were made--it's all in history books. What Spain and France lost or sold is gone forever. The first actual independent nation, with actual borders--you can see it on a globe--on the American land mass was the United States. The same country you say you want to be a part of now. And I don't blame you.

But this country is not yours. Not yet. Your mere itch to live and work here cuts no cheese; no matter how much you want us, we have to want you. And (think of American life as a pot luck dinner) we don't want you unless you're good company and bring something to the table. Something we want or need. Something we're hungry for. (And two things we've had more than our fill of are empty-handed mouths to feed and automatic votes for Democrats.) That something might be a skill, a sound character, a particular area of education or even the willingness to work hard. But don't tell me you're here to "do a job Americans won't do." The reason Americans won't do them is because you're willing to do them for next to nothing. If you ever do become an American, you won't do them either. This might be be the land of the free, friend, but it's not the land of the cheap.


And never mind what you've heard, most Americans don't give a fig for diversity and don't have any special respect for it. Being different, by itself, is no selling point, but if it becomes an issue, it can be a deal breaker. Americans come from all over, sure, but that misses the point. The only real, worthy diversity is expressed in individual human beings, not groups. America was known as a melting pot where group differences dissolved. Some people would rather we were a tossed salad, but we can't afford to let that happen. It doesn't work; and America became great not because of diversity, but because of its overcoming.


Look, friend, I can see that you have a better tan than me and I can hear that your English stinks. Granted, my Spanish stinks worse, but I've got a pretty good handle on English, which is what we speak here. Hey, if I knew I was moving to Spain, I'd hunker down with some language tapes, and by the time my plane hit the runway in Barcelona, I'd be speaking bad Spanish with a ridiculous accent, but determined to improve. I wouldn't expect them to change all the signs just so I could read them. I'd read everything I could get my hands on about my new country--especially about its history and heritage--and I wouldn't walk the streets waving Old Glory and yapping about George Washington. That would be bad manners. In America, we're sick to death of bad manners.


About that brown skin--in America, very few of us care. Americans come in all colors. Always have, from the beginning. Folks a lot darker than you fought in our war for independence. Like all of humanity, we've had problems with race, but we're unique in history for the bold and bloody steps we've taken to solve them. In our determination to live together as neighbors. Not just neighbors, but good neighbors. Color can't be helped and is no big deal. But culture, traditions and values are. Like any country, we're entitled to be the kind of country most of us want to live in--and to stay the kind of country we've always been. We're not about to change the essential nature of America to suit you--no more than we'll change the language. You're the one who wants to live with us. It's on you to fit in.


Color's no big deal, but in America, character is the biggest deal of all. I don't care what color my neighbor is. I do care if he mows his lawn and schools and disciplines his children. I don't care what music he likes, but I do care how loud he plays it at midnight. I don't care what church he goes to--or even if he goes at all, but I do care whether he shares and honors the same values I live by. I don't care if he's my best friend, but I do care if he's neighborly--and what kind of example he and his family set for my children. So long as it's legal, I don't care what he does for a living, but I do care if he's a parasite on society.


It's been nice chatting with you, alien. I hope I can call you friend. Someday, maybe, if everything I've said makes sense to you, I will call you fellow American. If not, then the time has come to say goodbye.

You Just Might Be A Pinko...Part One

First, an explanation. I never use the hijacked word liberal. Prior to the 20th century, a liberal was a rational free thinker about society and the state and a respectable thing to be. Today's American liberal does not conform to any part of that description. Likewise, I refuse to use progressive, because that assumes--falsely--that implementing the progressive project would, in fact, be progress. I don't use socialist, because the hybrid American socialism envisioned by fellows like Eugene Debs and Norman Thomas was adopted by the Democratic party long ago--and has been the governing assumption since the New Deal. It's not fair--yet--to call everyone holding left-of-center sympathies one of the loaded totalitarian lefty terms like communist or Fascist, because many of our countrymen are simply confused. So to me, if you're out there wandering in the lefty wilderness, you belong to the catch-all resurrected category of pinko. And you might just be a pinko...



...if you call yourself a feminist and a multiculturalist. Feminism, a brainchild of the western world, barely exists outside it. As a rule, the non-western multiculti world dismisses women, ranging from gentle consignment to second-class citizenship to brutal genital mutilation and honor killing. To be consistent, a multiculti must be anti-feminist, and vice versa, but as a pinko, you care nothing for consistency. You suffer from a condition called cognitive dissonance: holding two opposed ideas in mind at once and believing both, but, as a pinko, you can live with that.


...if you think it's constitutional to be forced to show proof of health insurance, but unconstitutional to be asked to show proof of citizenship.


...if you weep because war is not healthy for children and other living things, but want to increase government funding for Planned Parenthood.


...if you think that illegal aliens should be covered by ObamaCare--and that refusing to participate in ObamaCare should be illegal.


...if you think that freedom of religion means freedom from religion. As far as you're concerned, if you hear a church bell toll, religion is being established in your sovereign mental space.

...if it doesn't disturb you that the same government that claims it's too hard to upload a huge health care bill to the internet claims that it can command and control the health care of a nation, no sweat.

...if you believe this statement: "It's important to counter media portrayals that paint a frightening picture of adolescent sexuality and its consequences by teaching teens the upside of sex." Never mind that "the upside of sex" has been the #1 topic on the adolescent mind since Noah sailed. Forget that our culture constantly trumpets the joy of sex for its own sake as though it were our Muslim call to prayer. Ignore the unholy trio of unwed motherhood, abortion and STDs. Hey, you're a pinko! You believe that if we can save just one young person from feeling guilty, it's worth it.

...if you believe that one of the main jobs of public education is to teach the cardinal virtue of tolerance, but that schools should have "zero tolerance" policies regarding aberrant behaviors, such as a 5-year-old boy trying to steal a kiss on the playground, or pointing his finger like a pistol, or drawing a picture of a cross.

...if you believe that a teacher who can't keep order or teach kids how to read and write is nevertheless qualified to bring the same kids up to speed on the birds and bees. And if that includes showing fifth graders how to roll a rubber onto a banana, well...isn't it a useful skill?

...if you believe that justice--legal, economic or social justice--means anything other than getting what you truly deserve.

This is but the tip of the iceberg into which American culture is about to crash. Or maybe we have crashed, and are scrambling for lifeboats before we sink. But if you are a pinko, you see no crisis, much less disaster, and are busy rearranging deck chairs. Good luck with that. Or maybe you still don't see yourself as a pinko. If so, watch this space for further clues.

Apres Nous, Le Deluge

Tonight, Saturday, August 21, 2010, on the progressive paradise of Martha's Vineyard, the Obama entourage is making merry.

Louis XV supposedly said "Apres moi, le deluge," (after me, the flood) because the French natives were restless; his wild orgy of spending and unchecked privilege was almost over. But most scholars say those words actually came from Madame de Pompadour, Jeanne Poisson (known as Jeanie the Fish in gangland circles). Regardless, they were wrong. The sybaritic French monarchy was able to squeeze out one more Louis before the dam broke, the rabble took to the streets, blood flowed over the cobblestones and the guillotine blade grew dull from overuse.

American progressives will not be so lucky. There will be no second act for the Obama crime family, nor any successor in his footsteps. The water is already rising. As a metaphor, that the Obama clan should choose to take their 17th vacation of 2010 on an island, surrounded by water, at a traditional haunt of the hyper-privileged left wing, is almost too easy.

But let them enjoy it, because this is the end. Let tomorrow's children absorb the legend of their arrogant profligacy and transparent contempt for the people they were charged to serve. Lest we forget, upon Madame D'Obama's return from a glitzy spin around Spain, the royal family jetted down to Panama City, Florida (a favored Redneck Riviera beach destination of the Great Unwashed) for one day, just long enough to snap a single suitable photo designed to message "Nope, no oil here" before fleeing to their detached Bastille of privilege.

But we must draw a distinction between the French monarchs and the Obama court. In 18th century France, the nation and everything in it actually still belonged to the king, by divine right, to dispense with as he saw fit. Legally, if not morally, French blood and treasure were his, so he was carousing, albeit stupidly, on his own centime. Not so Obama. Not a nickel of the public treasury belongs to him, nor to the state over which he was mistakenly chosen to preside. In America, the people rule. Every now and then we forget, but we always remember. It's the American way to "laissez le bon temps rouler," and when the good times are rolling, it's easy to turn a blind eye. We were blind, but now we see.

Tonight, we're huddled on the dark mainland watching the party lights twinkling on the island in the sea, and see a man, snug among his czars and courtiers, who delivered a trillion dollars in bribes to unions and Democratic district pork projects. We see a man-shaped something who sold out Europe to Russia and got nothing in return, who spit on our British cousins and cooed sweet nothings to contemptuous Iran, gave back rubs to our enemies and is doing all he can to leave Israel for dead. We see a dark lord who will not use his borrowed power to protect the lives and interests of those from whom he borrowed that power, who will not protect their homeland's borders, because to him, that homeland is not a place, but a state of mind. If he knows that the proposed Ground Zero Mosque follows an historical, triumphal Islamic pattern of cultural domination by historical revisionism, he will never admit it. If he doesn;t know, that's bad. If he does know, but doesn't care, that's worse. And all the while, the champagne flows. He chooses not to see, but we see.

We see that high crimes and misdemeanors have been committed against the American people and their traditions. We see that a thug would be king. We hear the laughter and clatter of fine china, the hilarious toasts to the God-and-gun clingers. We hear and we see, but in the royal court, the ball goes on. We wonder if, after the party in the dead of night, the revelers of the Obama court freeze up with an animal sense of what is coming. Stabbed with self-recognition, do they say to themselves "Apres nous, le deluge?"

Maybe they don't know. Maybe it's better that they don't. Hey, party on, dudes! Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you die. Tonight, in the rest of America that is not lucky enough to be Martha's Vineyard, rage, fear and a new sense of honor run deep. And a guillotine is being prepared.

Blame It On the Sun

The Long Marchers of the American left (the Democratic party is their more or less camera-ready face--compared to, say, Code Pink) are desperately unhappy. They know they're going to get spanked in November; the only question is how hard--but November is the least of their worries. Two short years ago, they thought that their generations-long march through the institutions had ended in triumph, that they would quickly and fundamentally transform this free-for-all nation they loathed into an orderly banana republic in which they would all be top bananas. But what rises like a helium balloon falls like lead after the gas is burned off. Suddenly, it's all coming apart. The rough beast of authentic American republicanism is once more shambling towards Bethlehem to be born--million-faced and roaring--and the artificial center they created cannot hold.

The Long Marchers stare at one another in disbelief. How can this be happening? We just got here. How can hope so quickly turn into despair? How can change so quickly become a mantra used against us?

For nearly their entire first year of unbroken failure, they blamed Bush. Under constant seige from a lapdog media, Bush's last two years were undeniably rough (and he made a few moves that even he has since admitted he'd like back) and 3 out of 4 Americans--even some admirers--were not unhappy to see him go. Things are tough out there, said the Long Marchers, but we're here to help. It'll take time to come back from the Bush disaster, but time is all we need. It didn't work out that way. Everything got worse.

Their next villain was Republican obstructionism. Never mind their overwhelming Congressional majorities--those pesky Republicans refused to allow them free rein and were blocking the path to the Promised Land. "They have no ideas," they sneered. "They're the Party of No."

Like FDR, Obama believes that Americans crave motion for its own sake, that doing anything beats doing nothing. Throw enough dung at the wall (or money at a problem) and something will stick. But that just isn't so, and America was not that stupid. "We're not the Party of No," the GOP claimed indignantly. "We're the Party of Hell No!" Most Americans applauded. It was one of the smartest things they ever said. And the smartest thing the Republicans ever did was to listen to and echo the howling of the torch-and-pitchfork peasants surging through the streets. If they are wise, they will continue to do so.

The Long Marchers turned back to blaming Bush. Worked once, oughta work again. But time had passed. Although Obama actually owned the economy from the February day on which he passed his first giant stimulus, now the American people were tired of waiting for the magic drug to kick in and let Obama know he owned it, for better or worse. For a stretch of months in 2009, it looked like the economy might be getting ever so slightly and slowly better. But then it got still worse.

The Long Marchers were sure it couldn't be the steak, so it had to be the sizzle. Re-messaging had to be the key. So, they sent out glad-handing party animal Joe Biden for a cross-country celebration of Recovery Summer. That was a non-starter. America's ready to party, yes, but not the kind of party Shoeless Joe had in mind.

Then they tried to buy the mid-terms with the race card. It was declined.

Nearly two years after taking office and turning the country upside down, they tried to blame Bush one more time and run a nationalized campaign against him, but this time even Jon Stewart wasn't having any and joined the mockery. Two months before the election that will either solidify or effectively end the Obama administration's ability to govern, the once-droopy George W. Bush is suddenly standing taller than he has since Katrina. In front-line must-win Democratic districts across the nation, Bush (who isn't running for anything) now leads Obama in approval polls by a significant margin. And the "Miss Me Yet?" t-shirt bearing his goofily grinning face is the largest seller in the country. The Long Marchers are shocked to discover that if they run against Bush, they will lose. Again.

But, of course, this is not about the misunderestimated Bush, whose vengeance will come in history books, nor even about Republicans. It is about nothing but America and the reintegration of its present and future with its glorious past. It is about reclaiming the mantle of honor and our rightful place in the world. It is not even about politics, which is a means, but hardly an end. It is about shrinking the state to its proper size, yes, and restoring the balance between liberty and license, but above all it is about one thing: redemption--and in all of human history, there is no greater theme. In the face of a tide of redemption, the Long Marchers know they will be washed away.

But they have one last trick. Their last-ditch strategy is to paint selected Republican candidates across the country as "too extremist," hoping to tar all Republicans with the same brush. As though Gov. Chris Christie of New Jersey is radical and hates "the children" when he tells the teachers' unions that the rules of life and economics apply to them too. As though Sharron Angle, Harry Reid's opponent in Nevada, is wild-eyed to suggest that the Department of Education might not be a good idea. Really? Ronald Reagan didn't think it was a good idea either, and he did OK. After all, Jimmy Carter, who never had a good idea, created it in 1978. It's hardly a venerable institution, and its elimination might be an idea whose time has come. America might just have grown the appetite at last to revisit much supposedly settled business that has derailed us from being the nation our founders intended us to be.

So, the savvy Republican move now would be more political ju-jitsu: embrace the label, just as they embraced Party of No. "Yup, we're extreme. Kinda like Adams and Jefferson were extreme." Yes, but what about those Tea Partiers? "Yup, they're extreme too. Kinda like Patrick Henry, who demanded liberty or death, or Martin Luther King, Jr., who said "I may not get there with you, but I have seen the Promised Land." Perhaps a little compare-and-contrast is in order: who's more extreme, our guy George Washington or their guy Chairman Mao?" And maybe it's time to revive the ghost of Barry Goldwater, who said: "Let me remind you that extremism in defense of liberty is no vice; and let me remind you also that moderation in pursuit of justice is no virtue."

The Long Marchers must face it: there is nowhere to go but back to the desert wilderness, there to learn that you can't promise water and deliver vinegar to a thirsty nation. Nor can you hold the water of life in your hands. Drink it quickly, or watch it all slip through to be absorbed by sand. When it's hot, blame it on the sun. When you repeatedly fail, sooner or later you must blame yourself.

So now the Long Marchers have broken a reeking flop sweat, because Daddy's almost home. They know they've been bad and have a beating coming. What they don't know is how much it will hurt. The answer: worse than they can imagine--but they have no one to point at but each other. If America is a putting green, they misread this country like a golfer after dark. They stroked it far left; it broke wide right. They've been misreading us for a century--and getting away with it--but this time they went too far. The Americans are coming--not to liberate another land, but to liberate themselves. The Long Marchers done got cocky. They done crossed the bridge too far. They done us wrong. And they can't uhuh-uhuh-uhuh-uh-undo it.