It’s that time of year again, when the shad are running, and, consequently, my brother Rob Roy and sister Rose Lotus start dropping hints about being invited over to my house in Great Falls, Virginia, for lunch. So today was it - Rose brought her husband Hank and Rob brought his wife Katje, who is a vegan. But Rob got her to promise not to lecture the rest of us about the immorality of eating some poor fish’s eggs if I fixed her a nice tofu dish, which I did - extra firm cubes sautéed in organic peanut and roasted sesame oils with bok choy, miniature shiitakes, fermented black bean sauce, julienned scallions and shredded ginger.
Rob requested shad roe Chesapeake, which involves wrapping a roe sac in smoked bacon and roasting it at 350 degrees for about an hour. Rose asked for a shad roe omelette, which I created in minutes with a couple of duck eggs, grated shallots and finely chopped blue foot mushrooms. Hank said he would have whatever I was having, so that’s what he got - baked shad roe wrapped in shad fillet with anchovy sauce, gratin Languedocien and garlic golden fingerling potatoes with chived Pinot Grigo beurre blanc. Since it’s still pretty cold here in Washington, I served a nice hot butternut squash bisque first instead of a salad. And since shad roe is, technically speaking, seafood, I opened a bottle of Drouhin Grand Cru 2006 Chablis les Clos. That went pretty fast, so I subsequently uncorked some Il Poggione di Montalcino 2004, because shad roe goes quite well with red wine, too, actually. That Montalcino is fourteen and one-half percent alcohol, though, which didn’t occur to me until well after I had served everybody a bottle of 2001 Chateau Guiraud Sauternes with my homemade pistachio and white chocolate kataifi drenched in lavender blossom honey. In retrospect, I suppose I should have served coffee with dessert; even though that Chateau Guiraud, poured at precisely fifty-six degrees Fahrenheit, proved a quite remarkable paring with the kataifi.
“Looks like,” Rob opened with a condescending nod toward Hank, “you Republicans got nailed red-handed this time.”
“Doing what?” Hank demanded defensively. “Being patriotic?”
“That’s a good one” Rob sneered. “You call depicting the President of the United States as a demented comic book villain patriotic? You call portraying the Senate Majority Leader as Scooby Doo patriotic? You call drawing the Speaker of the House of Representatives as Cruella DeVille…”
“Who the hell,” Rose interrupted, “is Cruella DeVille?”
“A wicked woman who kidnaps puppies,” Katje declared indignantly, “and makes coats out of their fur!”
“Aw, come on, she’s not real,” Hank protested. “She’s in Lady and the Tramp, okay?”
“No,” I corrected, “she’s a character in One Hundred and One Dalmatians.”
“Whatever,” Hank countered, waving his hands dismissively. “Some kind of Disney movie about dogs. The point is, she’s not real, so it doesn’t count.”
“What doesn’t count?” Rose asked, clearly puzzled.
“The Republican National Committee’s PowerPoint presentation,” Rob thundered across the dining room table, “that’s what!”
“PowerPoint?” Rose was clearly confused. “You mean, the slide shows you present on personal computers? That PowerPoint?”
“Yeah,” Rob confirmed with a vehement tone, “that PowerPoint. Rob Bickhart, the RNC finance director, put together a PowerPoint presentation aimed at raising funds for the Republican Party.”
“Actually,” Katje added, “it’s intended for presentation to Republican fund raising staff.”
“Right,” Rob confirmed, “and it says, ‘What can you sell when you don’t have the White House, the House, or the Senate? Sell saving the country from Socialism.’ How about that, huh?”
“And,” Katje elaborated, “it also says, ‘If your target is rich, kiss their [expletive] and play up to their ego, but if they’re not, then appeal to their fears.’ See? That’s how Republicans do things when they get behind closed doors!”
“Well,” I interjected, “I don’t think the PowerPoint presentation actually says ‘kiss their [expletive],’ Katje.”
“Yeah,” Hank complained, “you liberals are always doing that!”
“We are?” Rob fulminated, gesticulating so expressively with his glass of 2001 Chateau Guiraud, he almost spilled some of it, “Look who’s talking! Since when did the Democratic National Committee try to raise money by drawing pictures of prominent Republicans that look like Lex Luther, the Warner Brother’s Tasmanian Devil or the Wicked Witch of the West?”
“And then,” Katje embellished, “telling their fund raisers to push the idea that the Democrats are ‘saving America from Republican fascists?’”
“Anybody at the DNC who tried anything remotely resembling that,” Rob proclaimed, “would lose their job in a New York minute!”
“All right,” Rose remarked in an astounded tone, “maybe somebody at the RNC might be moronic enough to produce a PowerPoint presentation like that, but I can’t believe the RNC could possibly be dumb enough to make it public!”
“They weren’t,” Rob declared. “But they were stupid enough to leave it lying around the hotel where that cretin Bickhart gave the presentation!”
“And then,” Katje snickered, “guess who found it? A Democrat!”
“Who sent it,” Rob continued in a triumphant tone, “straight to the DNC!”
“Oh, really?” Hank replied, trying his best to adopt a skeptical tone. “In that case, then I’d say it’s up to the DNC to prove the whole thing’s not a Democrat hoax!”
“Well, in fact, Hank,” I pointed out, “the RNC has admitted that Bickhart produced the PowerPoint presentation as Rob and Katje described it. I mean, really, Hank, I know, as a loyal conservative Republican, it’s your duty to apply double think and plausible denibility wherever possible, but holy smokes - there were over a hundred witnesses - the people in the fund raising strategy meeting the RNC held in Boca Grande, Florida, last month. Nice try, but there’s simply no way the RNC could possibly stonewall something like this.”
“You ought to check out the minority and black Republicans,” Rob gloated. “They’re as mad about it as the Democrats!”
“Ah, who cares about them?” Hank grumbled. “Bunch of dumb [expletive] and wet-back [expletive] [expletive] who ought to be [expletive] Democrats anyway!”
“I’ll thank you not to call me and my wife ‘[expletive] Democrats,’ you ignorant Neanderthal Polack!” Rob shot back.
“Apologize to my brother!” Rose stormed at Hank.
“I… I’m sorry,” Hank muttered into his Sauternes. “I meant, ‘present company excepted,’ of course. But none of you even gave me time to say it.”
“Now,” Rose glared at Rob, “you apologize for calling my husband a Polack!”
“Okay,” Rob sighed, “I’m sorry, Hank. But that doesn’t change what was in that RNC PowerPoint presentation, not one bit!”
“Hey,” Hank rationalized, “it just told the truth, that’s all. It said that the little guys in America are all motivated by anger, fear, bigotry and prejudice and that the rich guys are all motivated by ego gratification and a desire for access to power. What - are you telling me the Democrats don’t know that, too?”
“That is absolutely not,” Katje insisted, “how the Democrats think about their donors at all…’
“You’re just saying that,” Hank volleyed back, “because some Democrat wasn’t dumb enough to leave a PowerPoint presentation on DNC fund raising in his hotel room for a Republican to find!”
“No Republican,” Rob huffed, “will ever find a presentation like that!”
“Rob’s probably right,” I offered. “I mean, there’s no way somebody on the DNC would characterize Democratic Party supporters as ‘radical, bleeding-heart do-gooders,’ for instance, the way that RNC presentation characterized Republican Party supporters as ‘reactionary,’ ‘ego-driven,’ and ‘calculating.’ Democrats have a highly developed sense of euphemism, after all. They would say their Democratic contributors are ‘progressive, concerned, social activists,’ or something like that.”
“Yeah,” Rob nodded with an air of supercilious satisfaction. “A little respect for your constituents can go a long way, Mister Grand Old Party!”
“Well, it’s all over with, anyhow,” Hank pontificated. “I hear the RNC has renounced the whole thing.”
“You hear from who?” Katje challenged. “As far as I know, there’s been no apology or renunciation whatsoever from the Republican Party in general or the RNC in particular!”
“No [expletive],” Rob exclaimed. “And the responsible parties all still have their jobs! After an outrage like this, still no dismissals!”
“Times are tough,” Hank pleaded. “How’s Bickhart going to find employment if they fire him? He’s a family man! Why should his children have to suffer just because he did something idiotic?”
“Good question,” Rob chuckled as Hank turned red as a beet. “Now, maybe that - what did you call black Republicans? Oh, yeah, that dumb [expletive], Michael Steele, Chairman of the Republican National Committee - maybe he will explain to everybody why material like that PowerPoint presentation is offensive today, while the Republican Party has been, at the very least, tolerating that kind of thing, if not actually encouraging it, ever since Barack Obama and the Democratic Party won the last election!”
“Listen,” Hank growled, “no matter how much you Democrats yell about that PowerPoint presentation, the Republicans are still gonna clean your clock come the next election, just you wait and see!”
“With what money?” Katje prodded. “Republicans haven’t been able to raise squat lately!”
“That’s all going to change,” Hank murmured stubbornly.
“How?” Rob demanded. “Through the anonymous corporate donations recently approved by the conservative majority you Republicans created on the Supreme Court?”
“Could be,” Hank nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Just like that PowerPoint presentation says, the GOP is putting the FUN back in FUNd raising!”
“Jesus Christ,” Rob gasped. “I can’t believe it! The RNC PowerPoint presentation actually says that?”
“You bet,” Hank proudly replied. “And can you two smarty-pants liberals tell me, just how is the DNC going to compete with events like dinner with Bill Kristol at the Russian Tea Room, tickets to an Ultimate Fighting match in Las Vegas and a good old-fashioned Texas quail hunt with Dick Cheney?”
“Omigod,” Katje sighed sarcastically, rolling her eyes and turning to her husband, “what on earth could the Democrats come up with to compete with donation incentives like those? What could we possibly offer our wealthy potential donors?”
“Gee,” Rob pondered in a mock quandary, “I don’t know. Maybe we could offer not to bore them to death over borscht and zakuski; not to insult their intelligence with a grotesque spectacle consisting of two guys in shorts locking legs and humping each other; and… promise not to shoot them in the face. Let’s ask the expert,” he suggested, turning to look at me. “What do you think, Tom?”
Only the ring of my unlisted land line telephone rescued me from having to reply. Grateful for an excuse to leave the dining room, I made for the den and answered it.
“Hello, Tom,” echoed the anxious voice on the other end, obviously on a speaker phone in a room filled with other people, “it’s me - Michael Steele. Sorry to disturb you at home on a Saturday, but this is urgent.”
“No problem,” I assured him. “As a matter of fact, you called at just the right time. How can I help you today, Mr. Chairman?”
“It’s this [expletive] thing with that fool Rob Bickhart’s PowerPoint presentation. I swear, that [expletive] [expletive] [expletive] don’t have no more sense than a [expletive] ant! The Democrats are tearing us a new [expletive] all over the political talk shows, the press and the Internet! Have you heard about it?”
“Yes,” I told him in my most matter-of-fact voice, “I certainly have.”
March 6th, 2010
My two o’clock appointment on Friday was Dr. Sharmoot bin Ssum-izi al Humar-Hasawee, Cultural Subject Matter Expert at the The People’s Bureau of the Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriy, otherwise known as the Libyan Embassy. I offered him tea, of course.
“Do you prefer it,” I cordially asked, “with mint or cardamom?”
My guest threw me a worldly wink and a wry smile. “It is well known in Washington, Mr. Collins, that your liquor cabinet rivals that of the Australian ambassador.”
“I’ll take that,” I replied diplomatically, “as a compliment. What would you like?”
“A B-52…” he answered, licking his lips, “floater.”
It’s in the genes - I put my bartending heritage into full play as I slowly poured first Kahlua, then Bailey’s Irish Cream, and finally Grand Marnier down a bar spoon into a liqueur glass, creating, via the theory of specific gravity, the three-layered concoction known as a B-52 floater.
He knocked it off in a single gulp, handing the glass back to me with a nod. I grabbed a clean glass and made him another - that one, he sipped.
“I assume,” he began, “you are familiar with my country’s current… problems with Switzerland.”
“Let me see,” I reminisced, “as I recall, your Fearless Leader, Muammar Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi, has eight children. The fifth eldest, named Hannibal, has… shall we say, a bit of a temper, and consequently, was perhaps not the best choice for someone to represent Libyan oil exports to Europe. While there, he has attacked Italian police with a fire extinguisher, allegedly beat up his girlfriend in Paris, then, later, according to witnesses, beat his wife in London…”
“Same woman, by the way,” my guest interjected, following the remark with a futile shrug. “There’s nothing to those accusations. She’s a bit clumsy, apparently. Falls down a lot.”
“So,” I observed, “do his servants, apparently. The Swiss arrested him for assault in Geneva back in 2008. They held him for two days and released him on bail. Since then, Libya has ceased granting visas to Swiss citizens, recalled its diplomatic mission from Bern, closed down every single Swiss business in the country, withdrawn over five billion dollars from Swiss banks, halted oil shipments to Switzerland, and, recently, has begun to detain Swiss citizens…”
“Spies,” my client interrupted pointedly.
“… and characterized Switzerland as ‘a world mafia’ organization.”
“Well, you see,” he explained between sips of his B-52, “Muammar gets rather… carried away at times.”
“So does Hannibal,” I added. “He has publicly stated that he wants Libya to obtain nuclear weapons so it can ‘wipe Switzerland off the map.’ That’s a pretty harsh response for not being allowed to beat your personal servants while staying at a Swiss hotel.”
“Beating one’s personal servants,” Humar-Hasawee carefully explained, “is a venerable and highly-respected Libyan tradition, one that goes back to our noble ancestors, the first masters of the mighty Sahara. Beating one’s wives, children, servants and animals ensures the obedience necessary to survive in our harsh native environment. The practice is therefore integral to our way of life. For the Swiss to persecute Our Fearless Leader’s beloved son for observing it is therefore an outrageous example of Swiss cultural insensitivity.”
“Perhaps,” I reasoned, “but you must admit, there’s a certain… disparity between arresting and briefly detaining someone for assault and national nuclear annihilation, even if one does know how to think like a Libyan. Certainly, you must agree, no native North African Bedouin or Berber tradition could possibly entail the use of atomic warheads.”
“No,” he sighed, “I suppose not.”
“And now,” I continued, “Libyan police have surrounded the Swiss embassy in Tripoli in order to obtain two Swiss citizens, whom your government claims have problems with their visas…”
“And tax evasion, as well,” my client gently insisted.
“Followed,” I pressed on, “by Libya’s refusal to honor the passports of any country participating with Switzerland in the Schengen Agreement. That’s twenty-six European countries. Wouldn’t you agree, when that happened, your game of political tit-for-tat with Switzerland might have gotten just a bit out of hand?”
“Interesting,” he mused, “this ‘tit-for-tat,’ of which you speak. I know what the first half of that phrase means in English, I think; but tell me, just what the hell is a ‘tat,’ anyway?”
“To ‘tat,’” I informed him, “is to construct a durable lace of knots.”
“So… ‘tit for tat.’ To trade back and forth, knotted lace for…. no, no, I cannot see it at all in the eye of my mind,” my guest admitted. “I am afraid that I once again fail to comprehend the English idiom.”
“Not to worry,” I consoled, “nobody does, really.”
“Thank you,” he acknowledged with another nod, handing me his empty glass. We paused a while as he watched me make yet another B-52.
“What you have said, however,” he vouched as he accepted his third glass of liqueurs, “about things getting out of hand, this is, in fact, why I am here for a consultation this afternoon. You see, as I am sure you are aware, Switzerland’s latest move has been to ban minarets on mosques.”
“In all fairness to the Swiss diplomatic corps,” I reminded him, “that was not something they came up with. It was the Swiss people themselves who voted in a referendum to ban minarets.”
“But,” Humar-Hasawee countered, “the Swiss government did nothing to stop them.”
“Switzerland,” I remarked, “is a democracy. If the law allows a referendum on minarets, and the voters use that referendum to ban them, then there is nothing, legally, that the government can do.”
“Exactly the problem with democracy,” he gloated, having scored, in his mind, at least, a very palpable hit. “And a perfect example of what places like Switzerland can learn from our Fearless Leader. However,” he persisted, “even he does not always display completely flawless judgment, and consequently, there is concern within the Libyan government that when he called for jihad against Switzerland, things may have, in fact, gone a bit too far.”
“Colonel Gaddafi has,” I noted, “declared that any Moslem who trades with Switzerland is an apostate.”
“True,” Humar-Hasawee agreed between sips.
“And the Holy Qur’an,” I recalled for his consideration, “says that all apostates must die.”
“Now,” he conceded, “we are approaching the reasons why some think this whole affair may have, as you said, gotten out of hand.”
“Because,” I concluded, “Colonel Gaddafi has not only called for the death of every Swiss citizen, but also for the death of any Moslem who does business with Switzerland, and, in the bargain, implied that anyone who does not engage in jihad against Switzerland, killing all Swiss and killing any Moslem who does business with the Swiss, has betrayed both Allah and the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon Him.”
“Yes,” he confirmed, killing his third B-52 and gesturing for a fourth, “you are quite correct. Those are the philosophical and religious implications of our Fearless Leader’s latest pronouncements.”
“At this point,” I slowly and deliberately pondered aloud as I prepared another glass of potables for my guest, “it quite piques my curiosity - the incident that began this unfortunate chain of events, the beatings at the Geneva hotel. Why, exactly, did Hannibal assault his servants in the first place?”
My guest regarded me with an air of mild surprise. “Why? Are you serious? You want to know why he beat them?”
“Ah, yes,” I replied as I handed him his drink. “Why, indeed?”
“Why do your IRS here in the United States come at three in the morning to the wrong address, break down the door and shoot the dog?” Humar-Hasawee answered as he accepted his glass. “Because they can, that’s why! Same thing with Colonel Gaddafi and his family.”
“In that case,” I asserted, “it is certainly interesting to know our government has something so significant in common with yours.”
“Just so,” he snorted, somewhat skeptically. “Now, then, Mr. Collins, as I am sure you can imagine, not everyone in the Libyan government is as enthusiastic as our Fearless Leader is about beating people up, shooting people’s dogs, or declaring jihad on an historically neutral country famous primarily for its clocks and cheeses. And what I wish to explore with you is some… alternatives… that might be… ah, tactfully suggested in order to defuse further escalation.”
“Because,” I speculated, “if the industrial nations get too annoyed by all this, they might take steps to embargo Libyan oil…”
“Yes, yes,” he confessed, “that is, of course, an important concern.”
“Understood,” I assured him. “On the other hand, however, Libya can’t just drop the whole Switzerland thing overnight, because then, Libya might look… indecisive.”
At that, my guest raised his eyebrows in admiration. “Nicely put. I think I will use that one myself.”
“By all means,” I invited. “You’re paying for it. So, to avoid appearing indecisive, Libya needs another object to which it can direct its attention, such as… oh, just thinking off the top of my head, here, how about Italy?”
“Italy?” He leaned forward, betraying intense interest.
“Sure,” I brainstormed, “in Milan, they just convicted three Google executives on privacy violation charges, all over a video they had nothing to do with; Italy looks like a country full of moronic chumps for that alone. And then there’s this Berlusconi clown running the show - he’s such a tool, there’s a good chance his responses to a few well-aimed Libyan brickbats would end up making Gaddafi look reasonable. No offense.”
“None taken,” my client assured me, turning his glass bottoms up and gesturing for another B-52.
“Then, of course,” I suggested as I poured him a fifth drink, “there’s Greece. They’re totally bankrupt; plus, last week, they were caught in cahoots with Goldman Sachs cooking their books to hide the fact. Your Fearless Leader could start beating up on them and absolutely nobody would care. Why, the Turks would probably be very pleased with Colonel Gaddafi, actually, what with them and the Greeks being traditional enemies. Then there’s Denmark. Gaddafi could jump on the jihad bandwagon there very easily, and Libya would have plenty of company, too. What’s more, come to think of it, France is a very tempting target, mostly because they’ve managed to brass off nearly everybody in the world at one time or another lately. I bet the Algerians would love that, too.”
“All very good ideas,” he commended as he accepted another drink, “but I think Italy is too close to Libya, and Berlusconi is so crazy, might bomb us. We don’t like the Turks that much, actually, so it wouldn’t be a good idea to go in on their side against the Greeks. Denmark? Well, that’s so 2005, isn’t it? Our Fearless Leader would not take kindly to being criticized for a lack of originality… of being, how do you say it? Of being a copy-cat, or a follower; some kind of fellow traveler; someone who adopts a ‘me too’ strategy; no, I think not. And we do way too much business with the French.”
“Okay,” I explored, “how about we go outside of the box? Why does the alternative have to be a European country? Why, in fact, does it have to be a country at all? How about Colonel Gaddafi declaring jihad on Texas?”
“Texas?”
“Yes, Texas,” I confirmed. “It’s perfect - the place is crawling with infidels and every other state in the Union despises it.”
“I don’t know,” he shook his head, “I hear Texans can be pretty mean. They aren’t easy to push around, like Europeans. Frankly, I think, possibly, our Fearless Leader might be… afraid of them.”
“True,” I allowed. “Texas can be mighty tough to handle. How about the Falkland Islands, then?”
“The Falkland Islands?”
“That’s right. They’re a bunch of total sissies down there, for sure; sheep shagging farmers, mostly. And Libya would have Argentina, the United States, the United Kingdom, the British Commonwealth, the Organization of American States and the United Nations completely flummoxed. Nobody would know what to do. Hugo Chavez would be contacting Gaddafi for instructions on what to say!”
“I would have serious misgivings,” he complained, “about something so complicated.”
“Really?” I asked innocently. “How come?”
“This affair with Switzerland,” he confided “is already proving to be too intricate for us to figure out. Dealing with what you just suggested might cause heads to explode.”
“Okay,” I told him confidently, “I understand; no problem. How about Colonel Gaddafi declares jihad on tsunamis?”
“Tsunamis?”
“Yeah, you know - tidal waves. They are obviously the work of Satan, right? How can Gaddafi lose if he declares a holy war on those?”
“But ‘tsunamis’ is just a concept,” he protested in a bewildered tone. “It has no substance to it. We could be in a jihad against ‘tsunamis’ forever! How would we know we had won? How can we fight an unending holy war against a word?”
“It’s easy,” I assured him. “America’s been waging war against the word ‘terrorism’ for over eight years. If we can do it, you can, too!”
February 28th, 2010