A PRISONER EXCHANGE IS NOT FANTASY BASEBALL.

Trading five of your best players for Alec Rodriguez may seem like a good deal, but what if Alec Rodriguez turns out to be, well, Alec Rodriguez? You look like a gullible fool.  Not to mention what it does to your line-up. Your only hope, in that case, is to find someone who still wants Mr. Rodriguez. A little kid, for instance. The problem there is that kids are usually smarter and less gullible than you think. You don’t have that problem with Congressmen. They’re never smarter or more sophisticated than you think.

       I don’t want to get into parties or petty distinctions - being a Senator, for example. Instead, let my comments stand for everyone who has criticized the recent trade of five Guantanamo Bay prisoners for U.S. Army Sergeant Bowe Bergdahl. They are all feeble children treating the life of a U.S. soldier as if it were part of a sports trade.                                          

      “He isn’t worth five prisoners.” “We already have a sergeant.” “We’re getting rooked.” “We should have asked for money and a prisoner to be named later.” You might expect this reaction from the usual cast of dressed-up Snopeses, who have represented large parts of the country for a long time. Surprisingly, they are joined by members of both houses, who, otherwise, are supporters of the President. These people should know better. Instead, they protect their privileges against Presidential incursion with an unashamed vigor. The only possible excuse is that as members of a debased institution, Senators and Representatives are forced to grub for respect like convicts trying to dig their way out of prison with a spoon. Even worse than the foregoing behavior are attempts to discredit Sgt. Bergdahl. 

     Do we really want to go there? Do we really want to open up that can of worms? First, there’s the issue of credibility. Remember “Swiftboating?” If you don’t, ask Secretary of State John Kerry to explain it. You may also want to speak to former U.S. Army Private First Class Jessica Lynch. Not only was her military service – and supposed “heroics” – treated as a political football, but it began with her being rescued as a Prisoner Of War being held by the Iraqis. And those are lies! What about the truth?  I’m not even talking about wartime atrocities, I mean the enormous, growing and, heretofore, ignored problem of sexual violence against women and men in the service. Unless we want the truth about the armed forces and are willing to face the consequences, we shouldn’t go peeking into anyone’s record.

     Besides, what alternative is there to saving Sgt. Bergdahl? Leave one man behind? Is that the new army motto? Or is it more personal, leave this guy behind? "I never liked him, anyway." "He's only a sergeant." "He's been a prisoner for five years, he's damaged goods." "Suppose we rescue him and he dies? Then we really look like suckers."

     Unless being a POW is not as bad as it seems. If it were really bad, wouldn't prisoners die instantly? Compared to that, five years looks like a lifestyle. If only there was Senator, a well-known and highly-regarded Senator, who had been a POW for five years. I'm sure he could provide valuable insights. On second thought, maybe not.

     Can any good come from this whole tragic episode? Once you've seen one set of grieving parents try to throw another one under the bus, what can you believe in? Let's assume that the five prisoners released from Guantanamo are guilty. (Not legally guilty, of course. They've never been charged or put on trial, but they look guilty and, let's face it, they didn't check into Guantanamo voluntarily, so someone thought they were guilty, right?) The very idea of finding guilty people in Guantanamo Bay means the system works! Okay, five out of an estimated several hundred is not a great record, but no one bats a thousand. Compared to an average of, say, .200, it' not bad. If we were trading prisons, I'd go for it.

GEORGE PLIMPTON: REVOLUTIONARY 'ROID.

     Judging from Plimpton! Starring George Plimpton as Himself, part of the American Masters 2014 season on WNET, Mr. Plimpton was exactly what he appeared to be: an overhearty Old Boy with a little talent, a lot of personality and no inner life. He was George W. Bush except he became a celebrity instead of President of the United States.                        

     Invited by his childhood friend, Peter Matthiessen, to start a magazine, Plimpton co-founded the Paris Review, with which he was associated for the rest of his life. For almost exactly fifty years, he ran and financially supported the magazine. Even to the extent of using his apartment as the office. It was more than a  cultivated hobby, however. As someone in the film says, George needed the Paris Review as much as much as it needed him.            

     The same, however, can't be said of his two wives, Sarah and Freddy. Both are interviewed for this film and while they admit to marrying George, neither claims to have known him.

     Public life is where George Plimpton made a distinct and lasting impression. There's his famously plummy accent - more upper-class than New England - as if Parker Fennelly owned Pepperidge Farm in addition to being their spokesman. The tall, slender figure topped with a round face, weak chin and mop of boyishly cut hair made him resemble the inverted exclamation point at the front of a Spanish sentence. 

     How about Plimpton as a writer? Was he any good? Ernest Hemingway seemed to think so. The aging author called him, "The real thing." Keep in mind, however, that "Papa" saved his compliments for sycophants and would never praise a writer whose talent in any way approached his own.

     If George enjoyed any fame as a writer, it was due to his non-fiction. Under the rubric of "participatory journalism," Plimpton attempted several professions - pro sports,
circus aerialist, stand-up comic - at the highest levels and reported on his experience. It was a win-win situation, especially in sports. No one expected him to succeed and if he did - bonus! It was always about him, though. You had to like George more than hockey to read about him being a goalie for the Boston Bruins.

     Perhaps the least self-centered thing he did was work on Bobby Kennedy's campaign for President. Not only did it show public spirit,
but when tragedy struck, he was one of the people who wrestled Sirhan Sirhan to the ground. We'll never know for sure, though, because George Plimpton never wrote about it
or spoke about it - to anyone. Ever.

     The film has footage of George during a rehearsal of the New York Philharmonic. Standing in as the percussionist, Plimpton is asked by the conductor, Leonard Bernstein, to repeat a passage several times. The Maestro is non-plussed. "They're all different," says Bernstein, "which one did you mean?" The same could be asked of George Plimpton's life.

FAMOUS FIRST WORDS.

"Some women choose to follow men and some women choose to follow their dreams. If you're wondering which way to go, remember that your career will never wake up and tell you that it doesn't love you anymore."

                                        - Lady Gaga


               Remember Lady Gaga?

PAY RAISE.

(Sung to the tune of "Heat Wave" by Irving Berlin)

He's getting a pay raise
Executive pay raise.
It isn't surprising
Lloyd Blankfein is smiling
The way that he ran Goldman.

The ethically blind rave
It wasn't a crime wave.
He's simply much bolder
Enriching stockholders
Than any lawyer can understand.

See how his cash reward 
and his salary
and his bonus soared. Good Lord!

He's getting a pay raise
Executive pay raise.
The only pay package 
That's more of an outrage
Is Dimon's who ran Morgan.

AMY CHUA: THE KARATE AND STICK APPROACH.

  If Horatio Alger is the poet of upward mobility in America, then Amy Chua is its tabloid editor. Her previous book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, found childrearing wisdom in the brainwashing techniques of China’s Cultural Revolution. (TFT 1/25/11) Her latest work is The Triple Package and - according to short excerpts and published descriptions - reduces the former book’s content to a formula, applies it to society as a whole and seasons generously with the bad taste of counting other people’s money.

The sub-title for Ms. Chua’s tome is “How Three Unlikely Traits Explain The Rise and Fall of Cultural Groups in America.” If that seems familiar it’s because it echoes those cheesy, small-space ads on the internet: “One Really Weird Trick For Losing Belly Fat.” If it seems obscure, blame it on the phrase, “cultural group.” By that, the author does not mean The Chamber Music Society of New York. She means what other people call racial, ethnic and religious minorities. If you hear goosestepping in the background that’s because the “rise” of minorities in America is not always viewed positively. Henry Ford, for instance, was preoccupied with the success of a certain “cultural group.” This may be a good, though not the best, place to mention Amy Chua’s co-author, Jed Rubenfeld. Not only is he the author’s husband and a fellow law professor, Mr. Rubenfeld maintains a respectable side career as a mystery novelist. Since there is no polite way to speculate on his involvement in this project and, judging by his name, we share a “cultural group,” I will refrain.

Any further discussion of this book must wait until it’s published on February fourth. If you can’t wait, however, and absolutely must know what three qualities constitute “The Triple Package,” then – again, based on short excerpts and various published descriptions - I would sum them up as: strong group identity, weak personal identity and brutal, internalized discipline. Of course, if you’re part of a certain, very large “cultural group,” you already know that.

J. P. MORGAN CHASTENED (AGAIN!)

(Sung to the tune of “A Foggy Day.” Music by George Gershwin)

Will Jamie pay

For what he’s done?

His bank’s been fined

Twenty billion.

A full year’s profits

Are now down the drain.

Their full faith and credit

Are now that of Spain.

How long he wonders

Can his job last?

How long can they blame

The bank not the brass?

Add legal fees

Ad infinitum

And the chairman,      Mr. Dimon,

Looks more like zirconium.

THE TOASTED OF THE TOWN.

Since it is now legal to buy marijuana for recreational use in Colorado, the following scene is, no doubt, being repeated all over the state.

A woman walks into “Bong For Glory,” a legal marijuana dispensary.

Good morning, madam.

         

Good morning, sir. I’d like an ounce of your best “shit,” please.

I just got some “Maui Zowie” in this morning and I think you’ll find it particularly pungent.

He lets her smell it.

         

Mmmm. How many . . . “doobies” to the ounce?

         

Depends how you roll them.

         

I’ve never done that. I don’t suppose you could do that for me?

         

No, but you could use a pipe.

         

Far too masculine.

         

How about a “bong?”

         

Excuse me?

         

A water pipe.

         

Like a hookah?

         

No, madam, like this.

He takes out an object that looks like plumbing on, well, drugs.

It cools the smoke before you breathe it in and avoids the Mammy Yoakem effect of a pipe.

Very civilized. Do I have to wear a Grateful Dead shirt while using it?

No, but it helps.

No, thanks. I’ll take the, uhh, “bong” and the . . .

“Maui Zowie.”

The clerk rings it up.

         

That will be eight hundred and thirty two dollars.

         

Very expensive. I was led to believe it was a nickel a bag.

         

Not literally, madam. Never literally.

         

Very well.

She charges it.

Here is your receipt, your bong and your “stash.” Have a mellow afternoon.

ON GORGON POND.

     August: Osage County is a good imitation of an American family drama. Written by Tracy Letts (based upon his play) and directed by John Wells, it concerns Violet, a drug-addicted monster of a mother and   her family of minatory women and milquetoast men. Bring them all together at a funeral, stir well and cook until half-baked.

     Meryl Streep is wonderful as Violet, a woman whose character is lacking - but her character is lacking. This drug-addicted mother has no tragic dimension, she’s just a pill. Less Mary Tyrone, the “mad ghost” of

O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night and more Neill, the ghost of an alcoholic dog in Topper. She has three children (more or less), a sister, who defines competitive and a grand-daughter, who’s thirteen going on thirty. Assorted - and - sordid husbands, sons and lovers complete the picture. They are watched over with loving grace by Johnna, a Cheyenne servant with reservations about all of them.

The story doesn’t matter - but the stories in this kind of drama never matter. They are only excuses for tearing open old wounds and exposing them to the healing light of truth. The closest this movie gets is when Julia Roberts tries to inflict a new wound on Meryl Streep. The rest is pretty superficial. Speaking of pretty and superficial, there’s some nice scenery. 

August: Osage County lacks the poetry of Tennessee Williams, the bile of Lillian Hellman and the blood of Eugene O’Neill. Doubly a shame because there’s a lot of good acting going on. Watch out for that Meryl 

Streep. She’s going to have a great career.

THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE SNOWDEN.

          Fugitive from justice, Edward Snowden, was flushed into the open recently, but the results were closer     to plumbing than to hunting. Mr. Snowden has been in hiding since stealing defense secrets from the National Security Agency and making them public. Once Judge Richard J. Leon ruled, however, that one of those secret programs - phone-related intelligence gathering - was probably unconstitutional, Snowden emerged to take the moral high ground. It was higher than he thought.

         

         The only response to a judge saying something is probably unconstitutional is, “That’s probably bad.” If the same judge calls a government program “almost Orwellian,” one should reply, “That’s almost literate.” Instead, Edward Snowden took it as a blanket endorse-ment of his activities and mounted the world stage to accept what he no doubt thought would be universal applause. After all, he was protecting his country from the “almost Orwellian” threat of unrestricted government surveillance, wasn’t he? Hmmm.

His intentions may have been good, but the road paved with them leads to Moscow - where Snowden currently lives. Moscow, capital of Russia, the country that inspired George Orwell to write 1984 in the first place. He’s a demi-citizen in a nation that could easily make him a “non-person.” One where there’s no shame - and a good bit of wisdom - in address-ing pro-government views to the nearest lamp or chandelier. Where they make  news by letting billionaires out of jail instead of putting them in.  Not that he would know. The best thing you think you can say about Russian newspapers is that there’s no “truth” in Pravda and no “news” in Izvestia.

         

    Another thing Snowden may not know is that ten days after his friend, Judge Leon, said the NSA might be doing something illegal, Judge William H. Pauley III ruled that they definitely weren’t. So, he should stop worrying about “Big Brother.” Put it, as Orwell wrote, in the “memory hole.”

     It’s not all bad news, though. Apart from embarrassing himself, the biggest danger Snowden now faces is getting too comfortable in Russia. That could lead to him criticizing their government and – with his record of thinking ahead and considering consequences (TFT 11/7/13) – something he should avoid.

So, Edrushka, for your own sake, put away the “Free Pussy Riot” t-shirt and remember that before he was President of Russia, Vladimir Putin ran the KGB. Yeah, the “secret police” or in terms that you and Judge Leon would understand, “The Ministry of Love.”

THE QUEUE IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE QUEUE!

       Umbrellas as weapons are no longer limited to Bulgarian spies and razor-edged bowlers threaten bargain-hunting Britons as well as James Bond. Black Friday has come to Blighty.

     Black Friday, as Americans know it, is always the day after Thanksgiving, which is always a Thursday, and marks the beginning of the Christmas season. It is celebrated by risking your life for a giant bargain on a giant TV. It is called “Black” because however far in the “red” a retailer may be, the sales on this day always put them in the “black.” As Gabi Thesing reports for Bloomberg News (11/30/13) the British supermarket chain, Asda, introduced the concept at 350 stores around the country on Friday, November 29. “ ‘Shortly after 8 [a.m.] most of the TV’s and tablets were gone,’ said Bryan Roberts, an analyst at Kantar Retail, who witnessed the spectacle at Asda’s store in Wembly. An altercation between two customers over a television ‘gave it an air of American authenticity.’ ” Only an air, however. It isn’t truly American unless a security guard is trampled, pregnant women are kicked to the curb and the crackle of a stun gun rises above the screaming. In all fairness, though, it has taken the U.S. decades to reach this point and arresting a shopper in Bristol for fighting over two televisions is a promising start. Add the woman who broke her arm during a stampede in Belfast and the British can be proud of their first “Black Friday.” 

        Now, the country where they queue for everything can look forward to one day a year when it’s perfectly acceptable to act like a pack of rabid corgis ravishing the Royal Family. Don’t bother to thank the United States. It’s the least we can do for our closest allies.  

YES, CANVAS LOVES ME, DE BOTTON TELLS ME SO.

     Good news for wealthy, but overstressed, professionals with “Jobs to go to, bills to pay [and] homes to manage.” Inner peace is within reach. Easily, so. No religion to study or yoga mats to lug around like a Sherpa. According to Alain de Botton in his article, “Art For Life’s Sake” (WSJ 11/2-3/13) the path to serenity leads not to the mountain top, but through  a museum.

         

     Mr. de Botton begins with several assumptions: that people need help with “some of the troubles of inner life,” that visual art is “uniquely well-suited” to the task and that he has anything of value to say on the subject. The first assumption is validated by the existence of the self-help industry. The second is obvious to anyone who can find a museum with a map.The third merits examination, but only because the author is wallowing in cultural approbation. In addition to writing for The Wall Street Journal, Alain de Botton has written four bestsellers, co-founded a demi-philosophical dodge called “The School of Life” in London and, most impressively, salon moi, is a member of two Royal Societies. Assuming, of course, that they aren’t The Royal Mountebank Society and The Royal Institute of Charlatans.

The first painting that Mr. De Botton addresses is The Linen Closet by the 17^th century Dutch painter, Pieter de Hooch. It shows two servants stocking the eponymous cupboard. “But this picture moves us because the truth of its message is so radiant. If only we, like de Hooch, knew how to recognize the value of ordinary routine, many of our burdens would be lifted.” If only he, like de Hooch, knew that this depiction of ordinary routine was preceded by centuries of exclusively religious art, the value of observing domestic chores would be self-evident. The only lifting of burdens, by the way, is being done by the servants in the painting.

Ironically, it’s their daily routine.

The next work of art is the black-and-white photograph, North Atlantic Ocean, Cliffs of Moher by Hiroshi Sugimoto. Mr. De Botton calls it “abstract” and then proceeds to talk about it in terms of sea, sky and horizon. See here, Alain, it’s either abstract or figurative, recognizable or not. Throwing around terms like that undercuts your authority and undermines your “radiant message.” In this case, a Desiderata-like disquisition about going placidly amid the haste.

          

     Finally, we have Claude Monet’s Impressionist masterpiece, Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lillies. De Botton defends its popularity against charges of vulgar “prettiness.” The precious aesthetes who supposedly make these charges deem it to be an unworthy distraction from “war, disease, political error, immorality.” Our guru, on the other hand, writes, “It is this kind of despondency that art is well-suited to correct and that explains the well-founded enthusiasm for prettiness.” All this talk about prettiness obscures the fact that when this work was painted, it was considered so radical and disturbing that it wasn’t worthy of being displayed with respectable art. Yet, today, Monet is considered so mainstream that Alain De Botton feels compelled to defend him. We could use a different Horatio, however, at this particular bridge. Instead of praising society for finally embracing Impressionism, de Botton’s “radiant message” is “Flowers in spring, blue skies, children running on the beach . . . these are the visual symbols of hope. Cheerfulness is an achievement and hope is something to celebrate.” Writing like that is the hallmark of nothing except greeting cards. As H.L. Mencken wrote about Pres. Warren G. Harding’s command of the English language, “It drags itself out of a dark abysm of pish and crawls insanely up to the topmost pinnacle of posh.”

         

     I seem to be alone, though, in not regarding Alain de Botton as a “renaissance man” of our time – unless you mean Machiavelli or a Borgia pope. To me, he’s more Rev. Ike than Sister Wendy and aspires to be Dr. Phil. Yet, his elevation continues at the bottom of the page where his WSJ article appears. The biographical note states not only that “Art As Therapy,” a book-length version of the above insights (co-authored with John Armstrong) has been published, but “From March to August 2014, Messrs. de Botton and Armstrong will rehang and recaption the works in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam according to the approach outlined in the book.” I’m trying to picture that, but all I see is a museum lobby with three different admission desks: one says, “Feeling Lonely,” another says, “Feeling Religious” and  the third says, “Feeling Cheap.” The curatorial discussions, though, could be fascinating: “Where should we hang Rembrandt’s The Night Watch? In the Jewelry Collection or the Trouble Sleeping Gallery?”

Far be it from me to insist that there is only one path to enlighten-ment. Buddhism counts eight of them. As for different types of therapy, I agree with the American newspaper columnist and author of Fables In Slang, George Ade, who wrote, “A good jolly is worth whatever you pay for it.” Yet, humbugs abound. So, for the last word on Alain de Botton, I defer to Ade’s contemporary, L. Frank Baum, who, in The Wizard of Oz, wrote, “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

EDWARD SNOWDEN IN CATCH-2013.

     I wonder if Edward Snowden, the man who leaked highly sensitive information about our country’s intelligence gathering activities, is aware of the parallels between him and the character with his name in Catch-22, the famous anti-war novel by Joseph Heller? (Do I have to explain what “anti-war” means? I hope not.)

     The fictional Snowden is a waist-gunner on a WWII bombing mission, whose horrible death galvanizes the main character, Yossarian, into anti-government action. The real Snowden would - except for the dying part – probably be flattered by that comparison. Unlike the airman’s fatal wound, it doesn’t go deep enough for me. That the dying gunner is so completely in shock that all he can say is, “I’m cold,” gets closer to the truth. If Edward Snowden isn’t kicking himself every day, he’s in deep denial about the damage he’s done to his own life.

The real Mr. Snowden worked for the National Security Agency (NSA) a formerly secret branch of the government engaged in work more highly confidential than even the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). Apparently, he didn’t like being a spy. It’s not for everyone. The irony is that, for the rest of his life, Edward Snowden will be known as a spy. Not for his government job, but because of what he did afterward. He took a large amount of the country’s most top-secret information and revealed it to, well, to the world. That’s what spies do and if Mr. Snowden ever returns to this country, the crime for which he’ll be tried.

Real spies, however, are either idealogues or in business for themselves. The former are treated like heroes by the country or power sponsoring them. The latter are heavily rewarded, usually with money. Since neither praise nor dollars seem to be going his way, it doesn’t look like Snowden was working for anyone – including himself. So who benefits? Supporters may point to the higher profile of the NSA and a potentially chilling effect on its purported invasions of privacy. Yet, in another example of Catch-22, Joseph Heller’s term for a perfectly ironic twist, Snowden may have helped his former employer.

         Espionage works in the shadows. Spies can’t brag about whom they’ve assassinated and breaking a code is useless once the enemy knows you’ve done it. (Even if keeping it a secret means letting the Nazis bomb Coventry, England.) Now that our country’s intelligence apparatus is experiencing an unwonted - and very unwanted – spotlight, why not turn it into a limelight? Let the rest of the world be warned, you can’t keep secrets from us. You want to hear Angela Merkel order two bratwursts with everything to go? We’ve got that – and she’s the Chancellor of Germany! (On an unrelated note – Chancellor? Isn’t it time for a new title? Just saying.) 

     The biggest Catch-22 for Edward Snowden, though, is that he must live in Russia. The man who thought he struck a blow for government transparency and individual rights is forced to live in a country with zero democratic tradition. A country that added “gulag” to the dictionary. A country run by who? Oh yeah, Vladimir Putin, the former head of the KGB, Russia’s secret police. To be fair, his future may not be that bleak. A man with his knowledge and abilities would be invaluable to Smersh or whatever the Russian spy agency is called. Chances are, though, he’d like it even less than the American version.

     I’d say that Snowden must spend the rest of his life in Russia, but it isn’t up to him. Like making love to a gorilla, you stop when the gorilla is tired, not you. Let’s suppose then that the Russians get all the information they want from him (somehow) and he is free to leave. Where does he go? A life on the lam, in permanent hiding, beckons. According to Salman Rushdie, however, that’s not as much fun as it sounds – and he should know. Let’s suppose further that after thirty years or so, the world has changed and old crimes become the new norms. It’s happened before. Why can’t an older Edward Snowden return to this country, a newly minted hero? Ask Roman Polanski. He’ll tell you. 

     My advice to Edward Snowden, therefore, is to develop a taste for irony – and vodka. Reading Catch-22 will help with the former and any Russian over the age of twelve, with the latter. If you’re gay, find an apartment with a very large closet and, finally, avoid the temptation to wear a “Free Pussy Riot” t-shirt.  See you at the Olympics.

THE SECOND COMING OF CHRISTIE DOESN'T USHER IN THE MILLENIUM.

     I don't mind giving Republicans hope. People with hope think about the future. People who don't care about the future become suicide bombers or Tea Party conservatives. So, if the re-election of Chris Christie as Governor of New Jersey gives Republicans hope, I'm happy for them. The problem is that it's a completely false hope.

     As Kate Zernike and Jonathan Martin write in their front-page article in today's (11/6/13) New York Times, "Mr. Christie declared that his decisive win should be a lesson for the nation's broken political system and his feuding party." Then he bragged about winning in a state with a Democratic majority and his success among minorities, women and youth. Of the last five N.J. governors to serve full terms, three were Republican. So, beating a Democrat is not a big achievement. Christie's opponent, state sen. Barbara Buono carried Newark, the state's biggest city, which is predominantly African-American. So, his success in that respect is qualified, too.

     Speaking of Ms. Buono, let's go out on a limb and suggest that minorities and women have minds of their own and don't necessarily vote for the same race and gender.  Maybe who Christie ran against had something to do with his being elected? Considering that Barbara Buono had no name recognition and did little or no advertising, I'd say she was handi-capped and her losing was not exactly surprising. It certainly wasn't Gov. Christie's first term that helped him win. The economy in New Jersey still hasn't recovered; a year after Superstorm Sandy, rebuilding on the Jersey Shore is far from complete or even mostly done and he passionately opposed same-sex marriage until he gave up. But it's never been about New Jersey, has it?

     Chris Christie has always been outspoken about his desire to be President. The article quotes him as saying, "I know if we can do this in Trenton, N.J., then maybe the folks in Washington, D.C. should tune in their TVs right now and see how it's done." His appeal - apart from being honest about his ambition - is that in a year when Tea Party Republicans shut down the government and the GOP's popularity dipped to a single digit, a moderately conservative Republican can win. Ed Gillespie, a former chairman of the Republican National Committee, puts it this way, 'We'll be led back by our governors and Chris Christie is now at the forefront of that resurgence."

     The leap from being re-elected Governor of New Jersey to being given the power to start a nuclear war is a big one, however. A lot can happen in three years, too. There is, for instance, all that state governing for Christie to neglect while he campaigns for President. Like I said, I'm not against Republicans having hope. If the Tea Party has proved anything, though, it's that there's a limit to how much even Republicans can fool themselves.

OBAMACARE FACES CAPTAIN KANGAROO COURT.

Bob Keeshan! Thou should'st be living at this hour: Congress has need of thee: it is a pen of ignorant toddlers.

     Mr. Keeshan was for thirty years a children's television host named Captain Kangaroo. Wearing a blue uniform and a neat, grey mustache, he kept a generation of boomers quiet and well-behaved for an hour while they watched his show. Mr. Keeshan is gone, but his mustache lives on. I saw it on TV recently. It (or a close likeness) squats beneath the snout of Rep. David McKinley (R. West Virginia). I noticed it during TV coverage of a congressional hearing into the flawed roll-out of the Affordable Care Act, also known as Obamacare. The irony is that it was on a congressional Republican, who was behaving worse than a spoiled child.

     At the hearing by the House Energy and Commerce Committee on Thursday, 10/24, Rep. McKinley demanded an apology from four government contractors who worked on the trouble-plagued Obamacare website. "I haven't heard one of you apologize to the American public . . . for problems associated with not having this thing ready. Are apologies not in order?"

     No, they aren't, you fatuous booby. Not until you apologize for shutting down the U.S government. How dare you ask for an apology when you cost taxpayers billions of dollars for no reason. You didn't even apologize to fellow Republicans for embarrassing them because you got nothing in return for this bizarre stunt.

     Worse, according to The United Health Foundation, David McKinley represents a state with a crushing need for Obamacare. West Virginia ranks forty-ninth in the health of its citizens as measured by obesity, heart disease and diabetes. Its only competition is Mississippi and, sometimes, Louisiana. The Mountain State, however, is second to none when it comes to missing teeth among its elderly. Half of them have no teeth at all. What's more, the region is, shall we say, economically distressed, so the need for low-cost healthcare is acute. Yet, their Congressman is doing his best to make sure it isn't available. Instead, David McKinley is whining, pouting and petulantly demanding an apology because the Obamacare website isn't ready on schedule. 

     The real Captain Kangaroo would know what to do with this brat. He'd put him over his knee - and not to take his temperature.

THE LAUGHS MENAGERIE.

    The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams may be a classic of the American theater, but it could be funnier. It works perfectly as a tragedy, but is only a few, small changes away from being a comedy. Perhaps a great one.

     The play begins with a close, immediate family living together at home in St. Louis. There's a doting mother and a daughter with 
romantic problems. Right there, it could be Meet Me In St. Louis (1944). The only thing missing is Judy Garland's heart beating like a trolley bell. I'll go further and suggest that Tennessee Williams was a big Judy Garland fan. (I have no proof, but you see where I'm going.) Williams, of course, went in a different direction. A fatherless family - living in reduced circumstances - in St. Louis - during The Depression. Such concentrated misery that, among playwrights, it's known as, "The Quadruple Bypass."

     Still, dark and foreboding as this play seems, there are laughs to be mined here. Take Laura, the fragile, acutely shy daughter with a limp. She finds human company so intolerable that a class at the local business college overwhelms her. How will she ever find someone to care for her the way she cares for her tiny glass animals? If her name was Elizabeth Barrett and she lived on Wimpole Street, a handsome, young poet named Robert Browning would rescue her from her stern parent and they would live happily ever after. 

     Okay, not laugh out loud, but a romantic comedy nonetheless. It certainly worked for Rudolph Besier in his play, The Barrets of Wimpole Street. Unfortun-ately, the only poet in Laura's life is her brother, Tom, an aspiring writer, who works in a warehouse. Not being one of those poets with great career prospects and reserves of personal strength, his rescuing her is unlikely.

     Tom, sensitive as well as poetic, feels very guilty about not being able to save his sister. It's not, however, his only source of guilt or the only way in which he is being tortured. Standing head and shoulders above his sister is his mother, Amanda. Abandoned by her husband, Amanda is wedded to her past. A not inconsiderable past as she never tires of reminding us.

        Amanda was no mere southern belle, she was the southern belle exercising her whim of iron on an endless stream of obeisant gentleman callers. Now, though, all the whim is gone and her children must contend with the iron. They react differently. Laura is pushed so far in that her voice is barely an echo. Tom is pushed violently away, yet being the only man in his mother's life, she refuses to let go. She won't let him grow up, either, lest he become like his old man. No wonder Tom feels trapped and has to go out every night.

     Not comic gold, I'll grant you, but not beyond hope. There is lightness at the end of the tunnel. Hidden in the midst of all of life's worst situations is a door into a secret garden of guffaws: it's called being Jewish. Not that Tennessee was Jewish, his father was a minister. (I know, I know, you thought he worked for "the phone company." That's only in the play. Although, it depends on how you define "long distance.") All I'm saying is that a Jewish writer would have made this play a comedy. 

     A loving mother with a strong personality and a baleful effect on her children? Not unknown in Jewish culture. Weak or absent fathers? One or a million. Force them to share the same cramped quarters until they drive each other crazy? It's
almost impossible not to laugh. Make them two divorced men sharing a New York apartment and you've got The Odd Couple by Neil Simon. (I'll bet his father wasn't a minister.)

     Please don't list all the sad plays written by Arthur Miller. I don't consider him Jewish. Look at Death of a Salesman. You won't find boys named Biff or Happy in Hebrew school. Loman is not a Jewish name. (Loehmann, maybe.) Besides, what kind of Jew marries Marilyn Monroe except in his dreams. Most inglorious (Pronounced ime-goyish) is that he lived in Connecticut.

     Ultimately, the difference between The Glass Menagerie and, say, The Laughs Menagerie is a difference in outlook. Williams prefers a world lit by candles and the soft glow of nostalgia. As he has Blanche DuBois say in A Streetcar Named Desire, " I don't want realism, I want magic!" It's hard to be funny about that - especially when a feeling of being permanently excluded feeds your poetic yearning. To see the comedy in Amanda Wingfield and her children, you have to accept - not in a resigned, tragic way - you have to embrace a world lit by lightning - when it strikes people on a golf course! Caddyshack (1980) being a hilarious example. 

     Again, there's nothing wrong with the way The Glass Menagerie is written. It's gripping enough without electrocuting someone on stage. Yet, like the funeral guest who keeps insisting that the deceased be given chicken soup, "It couldn't hurt."