Arlen Specter started telephoning my office around eight this morning, but I was booked solid and couldn’t spare a minute until noon, when I asked Gretchen to order out for some sashimi and sushi nigiri, then made a quick trip to the bathroom. That done, I returned to my desk to find him waiting on Line One.
Tom: Senator Specter?
Specter: Yes, who’s this?
Tom: It’s Tom Collins, Senator. How can I be of service?
Specter: Well, Tom, it’s this Democrat thing.
Tom: You mean, your recent switch, after forty-three years, from the Republican Party to the Democratic Party?
Specter: Yeah, that’s what I mean.
Tom: What seems to be the problem?
Specter: First of all, there was the… disparity, I guess you’d say, between what I expected concerning my Senate seniority and Democratic leadership’s interpretation of it.
Tom: You mean, the fact that the Democrats essentially refuse to recognize the seniority you accumulated as a Republican?
Specter: Golly, it sure looks that way, Tom, and it really burns my onion! Here I am, giving the Democrats another crucial and highly important vote with which to stymie Republican senate filibusters, really, you know, doing the Democrats a huge favor, and what with Harry Reid telling me that I’d keep my seniority if I switched parties and all…
Tom: Harry Reid promised you that?
Specter: Yeah, sure he did.
Tom: In so many words?
Specter: Just like that. He said “Don’t worry, Arlen, if you change your party affiliation to Democratic, you’ll keep every minute of your senate seniority – all the perks, all the committee positions, the whole shebang.”
Tom: Got any witnesses?
Specter: Ah, no, not really. He told me that in the senate health club sauna. It was just the two of us.
Tom: So, Senator, I suppose you’ve now learned what the rest of us already knew.
Specter: “The rest of us?”
Tom: Yeah, the rest of us who haven’t spent the last forty-three years in the United States Senate.
Specter: What’s that then, which the rest of you know that I don’t?
Tom: Never depend on a politician’s promises.
Specter: Oh. Yeah. I guess it’s – what do they call it? Is it my “karma” or something coming back to bite me on the behind?
Tom: I’d say so, Senator. Think about it – from the Democrats’ point of view, they’re doing you a really big favor. After all, everybody knows that the opinion polls back in Pennsylvania clearly indicated that you weren’t going to win the next Republican senate primary. So by accepting you, the Democrats…
Specter: Hey, now wait a minute, there, Tom! That’s not how it works! If the Democrats had to “accept” people who joined their party, there’s no way a lunatic like Lyndon LaRouche would ever have been allowed to campaign in the Democratic primaries!
Tom: Okay, Senator, point taken. Anybody can join the Democrats – or the Republicans, for that matter – legally speaking, and there’s no way to stop them. The difference is, if you’re a Democrat, as Lyndon LaRouche is, and the other Democrats don’t like you, they simply ignore you and wait patiently for you to go away. Whereas, if you’re a Republican, and the other Republicans don’t like you – such as if you are, for example, former Senator Lowell P. Weicker, Jr. of Connecticut, who turned out to be pretty much the last liberal remaining in the Republican party – you get cursed at, spat upon and have Dixie cups of feces flung at you on the Republican convention floor; receive anonymous death threats; and, have conservative Republican theologians openly exhort their flocks to pray that God Almighty smite you down with plague and pestilence.
Specter: Well, Tom, you and I both know that American politics is a tooth-and-nail, rough-and-tumble, full-contact sport. But yes, I will definitely agree with you, the Democrats are less toothy, less nailing, less rough, less tumble, less full-contact and more sporting about the whole thing; and you know what? Even though it’s only been a couple of weeks or so, that’s exactly what’s getting to me.
Tom: Getting to you, Senator? In what way?
Specter: I don’t know, it’s sort of a malaise.
Tom: A feeling?
Specter: A whole spectrum of feelings.
Tom: New feelings? Strange feelings, perhaps?
Specter: Feelings, yeah, unusual, odd feelings.
Tom: Well, Senator, you used to be a Democrat, right?
Specter: Oh, sure, back in 1965. But I was just a kid then, only thirty-four years old. What the hell did I know? Really, now, what does anybody know at that age?
Tom: An interesting question, Senator. But you do remember what it was like to be a Democrat, though, don’t you?
Specter: In 1965? Jesus Christ, Tom, if you’ll excuse the expression from a Jew, but in 1965, we had nothing but black and white televisions with vacuum tubes in them and antennas on top. We communicated over rotary dial telephones with live operators and only had to dial seven digits, two of which were combinations of letters signifying quaint little exchange names like “Madison,” or “Dundalk.” Automatic dishwashers had just been invented and they didn’t work for squat; I mean, the dishes were still dirty when they came out, really, and garbage disposals – forget it, they were totally non-existent. Computers cost millions of dollars, and were arcane devices operated by scientists; they were the size of small office buildings and programmed with mammoth stacks of punched paper cards. Women ratted their hair and wore it stacked on their heads like huge beehives. Everybody smoked cigarettes, anywhere, all the time. The big toy fad with kids was the Superball. Can you believe that? Can you imagine kids these days going nuts over a ball? Music was recorded on plastic 45 RPM records with huge holes in the middle and the only transistors anybody knew about were the size of a pencil eraser and wired inside cheap battery-operated Japanese pocket radios. Racial segregation was legal in every state below the Mason-Dixon Line. Why, that was so long ago, people thought the dinosaurs were reptiles, no one knew that plate tectonics caused continental drift, the Russians were odds-on favorites to plant their flag on the moon, and nobody could say for sure where cosmic rays come from!
Tom: Uh, Senator, nobody can say for sure where cosmic rays come from today, either.
Specter: Oh, fiddlesticks, Collins, you know what I’m talking about!
Tom: Of course I do, sir, and it occurs to me, Senator, that you are remarkably old.
Specter: Damn right I am! Let me tell you, being a United States senator is a pretty cushy job. Light hours, no heavy lifting and absolutely fantastic health care. That’s how I got so old, you know, being a senator all these years; and that’s why I want to stay one, too!
Tom: Exactly how old are you, Senator?
Specter: I’m so old, I took my SATs in cuneiform on wet clay tablets.
Tom: That’s pretty old, all right. But seriously, Senator, how old are you?
Specter: I’m so old, I went to the University of Ninevah.
Tom: No, really, how old?
Specter: I’m so old, I nailed Xanthippe before Socrates married her!
Tom: Oh, come now, how old, Senator?
Specter: I’m so old, I went to toga parties with Nero!
Tom: Now, that’s old.
Specter: You bet it is, and let me tell you, they don’t make Democrats like they used to when I was young. Which is what I was saying. There’s something about these new Democrats. I used to be a Democrat, and even though it might have been a long time ago, I still remember, and that’s what bothers me, because it used to be that hairy, virile, intrepid, brave and masculine men were Democrats. Muscular, commanding, bold and fearless men were Democrats, Tom, men like Andrew Jackson, men like Harry S Truman!
Tom: Um, yes, I see, Senator… ah, manly men of destiny… such as Lyndon Baines Johnson.
Specter: What? Johnson? Yeah, him, too, I guess. Look, Tom, my point is, ever since I became a Democrat – became one again, even, if you insist – I’ve been having these odd sensations, and they’re nothing like what I had when I was a Democrat the first time.
Tom: And they bother you?
Specter: Bother me? They’re driving me up the wall!
Tom: Can you… describe them?
Specter: Yeah, okay, I think I can, actually. First of all, I have this urge to start visiting a hair stylist instead of a barber.
Tom: I see. And that bothers you?
Specter: Hell, yes, it bothers me.
Tom: Why?
Specter: Because if I went to a hair stylist, then there would be, well, women there, and I’ve never had my hair cut in front of women before.
Tom: I understand. What else?
Specter: Lately, when I look in the mirror, I’ve been noticing that I’ve got all these gross, disgusting hairs growing out of my ears and my nose and wow, Tom, there’s even hairs growing between my eyebrows and now, since I became a Democrat, for some strange reason, all those hairs are bothering the hell out of me and I want to do something about them, but I can’t figure out what!
Tom: And?
Specter: You knew there would be more, didn’t you?
Tom: Yes, I did.
Specter: I… I’ve just been thinking about it, you know, sort of day dreaming…
Tom: Fantasizing?
Specter: You could call it that, I suppose… fantasizing about… about getting… about getting a…
Tom: Senator?
Specter: All right! I’ll say it! I can say it! I’ve been fantasizing about getting a… pedicure!
Tom: A pedicure?
Specter: Pedicure! There! I said it! Twice!
Tom: Understood. Any… dietary changes?
Specter: Cheese.
Tom: Cheese?
Specter: When I was a Republican, it was some Pennsylvania Cave Aged Extra Sharp Cheddar on Ritz crackers, Tom, and that was heaven, as far as I was concerned. But now that I’m a Democrat, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night thinking about… unusual things…
Tom: You mean…
Specter: Yes, yes, strange cheeses, Tom; I’ve been thinking about goat cheese and sheep cheese and cheese with truffles in it…
Tom: White or black truffles?
Specter: There are different kinds of truffles?
Tom: Yes, there are – several, in fact, hailing from France and Italy, developing symbiotically with either hazelnut or oak, and each with its own distinctive flavor.
Specter: I don’t know, Tom – would you believe I sort of wish you hadn’t told me that?
Tom: Yes, I would.
Specter: And I’m starting to like jazz, and to not be offended by rap lyrics; basically, I’m not the least bit nervous around Negroes anymore. But realizing that I’m not is making me more nervous in a different way. In addition, I’ve started surfing the Internet and, well, for example, I just happened to run across a video of Cirque du Soleil the other night and I found it… entertaining. And I saw Bono talking about Darfur and I… understood him. Plus, I used to get, you know… turned on… by firearms, especially large caliber and full auto pieces, but now all I can think of when I see guns is blood and emergency rooms and dead children and stuff like that, and Mr. Happy’s stopped doing nip-ups over them completely.
Tom: I see. Right. Let’s try some word association, then. Global?
Specter: Warming.
Tom: Deficit?
Specter: Spending.
Tom: Automobile?
Specter: Workers’ union.
Tom: Housing?
Specter: Subsidy.
Tom: Action?
Specter: Affirmative.
Tom: Research?
Specter: Stem cell.
Tom: Offshore?
Specter: Windmills.
Tom: Consumer?
Specter: Protection.
Tom: Medicine?
Specter: Single payer.
Tom: Federal?
Specter: Reserve system.
Tom: United?
Specter: Nations… oh, no, I meant “States,” of course!
Tom: Just relax, Senator, there aren’t any right or wrong answers. Farm?
Specter: Family.
Tom: Agricultural?
Specter: Subsidy.
Tom: Corn?
Specter: Ethanol.
Tom: Energy?
Specter: Solar.
Tom: ANWR?
Specter: Caribou.
Tom: Russia?
Specter: Petroleum.
Tom: Iran?
Specter: Caviar.
Tom: China?
Specter: Lead.
Tom: Japan?
Specter: Anime.
Tom: North Korea?
Specter: Foreign aid.
Tom: Kansas?
Specter: Creationism.
Tom: New York?
Specter: Delicatessen.
Tom: California?
Specter: Hollywood.
Tom: Florida?
Specter: Supreme Court.
Tom: Minnesota?
Specter: Public broadcasting.
Tom: DC?
Specter: Statehood.
Tom: No doubt about it, Senator, you’re turning back into a Democrat.
Specter: Is that, um, why I’ve started thinking… different things… about, ah, Barbara Boxer?
Tom: Excuse me? I’m sorry, but I don’t follow. Could you explain, Senator?
Specter: Well, for years, I’ve been daydreaming about what it would be like to, you know, do it with Barbara Boxer, or sometimes, I’d imagine doing it with Dianne Feinstein – but Boxer’s much hotter, don’t you think?
Tom: Now that you mention it, yes, Boxer’s a real fox, no doubt; quite hot.
Specter: For a woman that age, you understand.
Tom: Of course.
Specter: Sure, and any guy with a decent pair on him would agree, but damn, Tom, that’s just it! Now that I’m a Democrat, I know it sounds kind of strange, Tom, but I don’t want to do it with her anymore; no, instead, I want to be Barbara Boxer!
Tom: That’s it! Now I see the reason!
Specter: You see the reason for what?
Tom: You’re reacting to the feminizing effects of becoming a Democrat – that’s why you’ve been voting with the Republicans for the last two weeks!
Specter: Yeah, okay, I guess you’re right. But it was the only way to make this damn tingling sensation in my nipples go away. You don’t think becoming a twenty-first century Democrat is going to make them get bigger, do you?
Tom: Oh, come now, Senator. Back when you were thirty-four, being a Democrat didn’t make your pubic hair fall out, now did it?
Specter: Actually, I didn’t grow any pubic hair until I was thirty-seven, so I can’t really say for sure. But what can I do about all this, Tom?
Tom: Well, there are a few things I would definitely recommend.
Specter: And what would those be?
Tom: No quiche, no espresso, no biscotti, no mesclun, no mache, nothing made with flavored vinegars, no wine, no micro-brewed beer, no cheese other than Swiss, cheddar or provolone, no fruit other than oranges, apples or raisins, no lettuce other than iceberg, and, for the love of God, Senator, absolutely no heirloom vegetables or soy products whatsoever.
Specter: Anything else?
Tom: Yeah – for at least the next entire year, you should watch nothing but action-adventure movies, read nothing but Tom Clancy novels, and go out to a firing range and expend three hundred rounds of ammunition every Saturday afternoon.
Specter: But I just told you, Tom – the sight of guns is beginning to scare me!
Tom: Look – once your body smells that burned cordite, it will react by producing a flood of male hormones and your creeping fears of guns and ammo will vanish like a bunch of rag-top hadjis heading for the hills during a Predator drone white phosphorous air strike! That’s exactly why you need to get out there and start blasting away, and the sooner, the better! Plus, you’ve got to eat red meat nine or more times a week, drink at least one reeking peat single malt scotch on the rocks every day, smoke a minimum of a dozen top-shelf, hand-rolled Cuban seed cigars each fortnight, spend at least thirty hours a month watching professional sports, and – this is very, very important, Senator – no matter what happens, you must resist the urge to sit down when you pee.
Specter: Okay. Got it. Heard and understood. Roger-wilco.
Tom: And oh, yeah, you should start taking twenty-five milligrams of dehydroepiandrosterone twice a day.
Specter: De-hyra-whatsis-face?
Tom: DHEA. It’s sold as a nutritional supplement. You can buy it over the counter at the drug store.
Specter: And you think taking it will help?
Tom: What do you suppose kept Al Gore from turning into a cross between Janet Reno and Hillary Clinton?
Specter: But Al Gore is a cross between Janet Reno and Hillary Clinton!
Tom: Yeah, granted, that’s essentially true – but he’s also still a man, technically speaking, and that’s what I’m talking about.
Specter: But I don’t want to end up being a cross between Janet Reno and Hillary Clinton, even if, technically speaking, I remain a man!
Tom: We can’t expect miracles here, Senator – after all, you are a Democrat now. But you won’t turn into a cross between Janet Reno and Hillary Clinton, though, I can guarantee you that. You’re definitely going to turn out to be something much different.
Specter: Such as what?
Tom: Something like a cross between Eleanor Roosevelt and Margaret Mead.
Specter: Oh. Uh, yeah, okay, that’s a very… dignified combination, isn’t it?
Tom: Extremely so, Senator.
Specter: Ah, well then, thank you, Tom.
Tom: You’re welcome, Senator. And remember to look on the bright side – sure, you’re turning into a mincing, prancing little girly boy, just like all the other New Age Democrat guys, but, on the other hand, you’re keeping your nice senate job, and if you adhere strictly enough to the machismo retention regime I’ve outlined, it could be years before your body re-absorbs your testicles.
Specter: You’re absolutely correct, Tom. I really appreciate you taking the time to speak with me today.
Tom: My pleasure, Senator.
Specter: And I’m sincerely grateful for your advice. The next time I see you, I’m giving you a big, empathetic hug!
Tom: A check for this consultation would be better.
Specter: Ah, um, certainly. Gotta run; goodbye.
Tom: Sure. Have a nice day.