Who Let the Dogs In? (4 page)

The odd thing about these television discussions designed to “get all sides of the issue” is that they do not feature a spectrum of people with different views on reality: Rather, they frequently give us a face-off between those who see reality and those who have missed it entirely. In the name of objectivity, we are getting fantasyland.

March 1987

Killing the Messenger

R
ON
AND NANCY.
Let’s face it, they were the eighties. OK, so his mind is mired somewhere in the dawn of social Darwinism, and she’s a brittle, shallow woman obsessed with appearances, but then, it was that kind of decade, wasn’t it? No fair blaming it on them—they were what the country wanted. They never made you think, never had any doubts, never met a problem that couldn’t be solved by public relations, and they didn’t raise your taxes. It was Don’t Worry, Be Happy City—all done on borrowed money, with glitz and mirrors, while the social fabric rotted, the infrastructure crumbled, the environment slowly became nightmarish, and the deficit grew and grew. The least we can do is thank them for the wonderful memories.

The charm of Ronald Reagan is not just that he kept telling us screwy things, it was that he believed them all. No wonder we trusted him, he never lied to us. That patented Reagan ability to believe what he wants to—damn the facts, full speed ahead—gave the entire decade its
Alice in Wonderland
quality. You just never knew what the president would take into his head next—or what odd things were already lurking there. His stubbornness, even defiance, in the face of facts (“stupid things,” he once called them in a memorable slip) was nothing short of splendid. It made no difference how often you told him something he didn’t want to believe. The man
still
thought you could buy vodka with food stamps, that he never traded arms for hostages, and that the Soviet Union has sent billions of dollars of weapons to the Sandinistas. This is the man who proved that ignorance is no handicap to the presidency.

One of my favorite episodes came early in the administration, in 1981, when then secretary of state Alexander Haig announced to an appalled world (we hadn’t twigged yet) that the Soviet Union was using chemical warfare in Southeast Asia, spraying a lethal “yellow rain” on remote tribes that led to a terrible sickness and then death. The godless commies were apparently practicing on remote tribal people to see if the poison worked. Oh, the horror.

Later, scientists around the world identified the “yellow rain” as bee doody. It seems that Asian bees occasionally leave their hives, fly up to a considerable altitude, and dump en masse. The resulting clouds frightened the tribes but never, it turned out, killed anyone. The Reagan administration never withdrew the charge and never apologized for it.

In 1986, when Reagan was told the Congressional Budget Office had statistics showing a dramatic redistribution of wealth from the poor to the rich, he twinkled endearingly and said, “Oh, I don’t think that’s true.” That’s a classic example of the simplicity, the straightforwardness of his approach to unwelcome news. It was one of his favorite phrases.

By December 1987, the deficit had become so staggering that a “budget summit” was called between the White House and Congress. The deal was that Congress had to come up with half of an agreed-upon sum by making cuts in social spending and that Reagan would come up with the other half by cutting military spending. The congressional delegation arrived at the White House and laid out its cuts. Reagan then laid out his new military budget, but it had no cuts in it—it had increases. “Mr. President,” said Speaker Jim Wright gently, “you were supposed to
cut
the military budget.”

“Oh, spending on the military doesn’t increase the deficit,” replied Reagan cheerfully. “Cap,” he gestured to the end of the table, “explain it to them.” Looking slightly sheepish, since he was talking to the members of Congress who know most about financing government, Caspar Weinberger rose to his feet and launched into a spiel he had obviously given often before. He said money spent on the military goes out into the economy, you see, and is spread around and then it trickles down, you see, and then it has a multiplier effect, and because of the multiplier effect, the Treasury gets back more money than it spends on the military, you see, so it doesn’t increase the deficit at all. And then he sat down. Reagan turned confidently to the congressmen and said, “You see?” He had then been president for seven years.

He was the candidate of the Moral Majority and the Religious Right: Unfortunately, his entire administration was so riddled with corruption that much of it is still being uncovered. The man brought James Watt, Ed Meese, Ray Donovan, and Silent Sam Pierce into the cabinet. He brought Michael Deaver, Lyn Nofziger, Donald Regan, John Poindexter, and Oliver North into the White House. In 1985, the last year for which we have the full numbers, 563 federal officials were indicted and 470 convicted, a tenfold increase over the high-water mark that was reached with Watergate. It’s gotten worse every year since and may go even higher this year, if only because of the HUD scandal.

As for Nancy, my own feeling is that it’s unfair to pick on her—irresistible but unfair, in that the only reason she ever entered the public eye was as Reagan’s consort. Whatever vanities, follies, selfishness, or even excesses of loyalty that may distinguish her, none of them would have ever come in for public lampooning had the woman married a rich dentist. Many, including Donald Regan, saw her as the power-behind-the-throne, as the stronger, more manipulative partner, as the one who supposedly made Reagan into a right-winger to begin with. Oh, Poop. That’s just the same old sorry sexist stereotype about the scheming woman that’s been used against every wife-of-a-powerful-man from Napoleon to Lincoln to Roosevelt. There’s no evidence that Nancy Reagan’s occasional interference in her husband’s schedule, staff, or public presentation was ever anything more than protectiveness or perhaps overprotectiveness. That he was slightly dotty by the end of his second term was clear to everyone, and her fierce desire to protect him from demands beyond his fading abilities can only be considered commendable in human terms.

Of more legitimate public concern, although probably of marginal im-pact, is her effect as a role model. Mrs. Reagan chose to be—first, last, and always—a wife. By the testimony of her own children, it was a role she put well ahead that of mother. That she has no independent life is apparent. He
is
her career and she is unquestionably an enormous political asset to him. I never met an honest man yet, no matter what his politics, who wouldn’t confess that he would adore to have a woman look at him the way Nancy
always
looks at Ronnie. “The Gaze” was famous among journalists and political insiders. Through every single speech of his, Mrs. Reagan looked at him with total attention, as if she were witnessing one of the wonders of the world. It was a fantastic performance when you consider how many times she had to sit through that drivel.

So here’s to Nancy, the Gaze, and eight years of not much else. When not calling her “friend,” the astrologer, to see if it was a good day for the president to travel, she followed the advice of her image maker and sought to shed her reputation as a vain, vapid clotheshorse by valiantly combatting the drug epidemic with the most ringingly inane and inappropriate slogan in the history of folly: “Just Say No.” All who have been saved from drugs by Nancy Reagan, please raise your hands. Thank you.

October 1989

Bush Leaguer

I
WAS
JUST ABOUT
to celebrate George Bush’s long and distinguished career as a raving twit when he up and jumps all over Dan Rather, thus transforming his image from Tweety Bird to Chuck Bronson. “If I hear Iran-contra, he’s gonna hear Miami” (a reference to Rather’s famous walkout), Bush is said to have snarled before the big broadcast bout began. A clash of titans. Cover of
Time.
The whole schmear. And I thought it was just another politician refusing to answer questions.

My favorite moment in the whole flap came the morning after, when Rather, carried away by the thrill of it all, said he had intended no disrespect, was merely intending to do his job. “I have the greatest respect for the office of the vice presidency,” said he. Is that right? Next month, Dan Rather’s career as a raving twit.

Before the Great Confrontation, Bush had been having some bad days. While campaigning in Iowa, he was confronted by a woman who demanded to know why he is in favor of abortion. Absolutely untrue, said the veep, I am not in favor of abortion, I am totally opposed to abortion. After the meeting broke up, Bush approached the woman, who had a Jack Kemp flier in her hand. Bush took the flier away from her, tore it into pieces, looked at her, and said, “Fini.” Fini?
Fini?
He used French in Iowa?
Quel fromage!
I’m getting worried about the veeper.

When he lost a straw poll in Iowa a few months ago, he blamed it on supporters who were off “at their daughters’ coming-out party or teeing up at the golf course for that crucial last round.” This comment did not burnish the man’s image as a son of the soil.

Then
The Wall Street Journal
asked him what went through his mind when his plane was shot down in World War II. “Well,” replied Bush, “you go back to your fundamental values. I thought about Mother and Dad and the strength I got from them. And God and faith, and the separation of church and state.”

The thought of George Bush, his plane blown apart by Japanese gunfire, hurtling toward the Pacific while he meditates serenely on the separation of church and state—well, come on, admit it,
you
wouldn’t have thought about the separation of church and state.

And then there was the most memorable day of the 1984 campaign. Now, you have to understand that all politicians have days when nothing will go right. This one started in Minnesota, where the veep had to get up at 6
A.M.
to milk a cow in order to demonstrate his concern for the plight of the American farmer. He showed up wearing a properly plaid wool shirt—but he had it on under a State Department suit. Either he had forgotten how to milk or the cow was a Democrat. He had also forgotten that cows are retromingent, a word one doesn’t often get to use.

It went on like that all day. Every time they handed him a baby, it would start screaming as though it had just been stuck with a safety pin. He got to Green Bay, Wisconsin, and told the crowd how much he liked the Minnesota Vikings.

This was just a few days after the debate in which Bush accused Walter Mondale of having said that our marines in Lebanon “died in shame.” Mondale had said no such thing; he said the marines had died in vain. Bush then held a ridiculous press conference trying to prove with a dictionary that “in shame” and “in vain” mean the same thing. Mondale was furious, and when asked to comment said, “George Bush doesn’t have the manhood to apologize.”

Bush was in Wisconsin by the time this comment was relayed to him and he was asked to respond. “On the manhood thing,” said the veep, “I’ll put mine up against his any time.” Reporters stood there, pencils frozen. “Did he say that? Did you hear him say that?”