All the Presidents' Pets (8 page)

Kennedy dogs Charlie and Pushinka. Their “negotiations” averted a nuclear nightmare.

The thirteen stressful days of October will never be forgotten. Many believe that things turned out peacefully because the President and his staff had such a wonderful environment in which to resolve the conflict, thanks to Mrs. John F. Kennedy.

The truth, however, is that Pushinka and Charlie—and Butterfly, White Tips, Blackie, and Streaker—reminded an isolated President of the potential costs of a decision that was ultimately his and his alone—and in doing so saved the planet from an unspeakable fate.

Helen saw that I'd finished reading. “Pretty interesting, huh? Sometime I'll tell you how Caroline's pony, Macaroni, helped write the Atmospheric Test Ban Treaty.”

I didn't really hear her. I was floored by what I'd read, but not by the talking animals. I assumed this was some Orwell-for-kids rhetorical device employed by an overly experimental young reporter. It didn't surprise me that the animals' “words” had been blacked out by Helen's editor. Some readers might have actually thought Helen was being literal.

What concerned me more was how very close we'd come to Armageddon. The edited version didn't convey that. “Why wasn't this published, Helen?” I asked.

She averted her eyes from mine. “It just wouldn't have been appropriate. There were other priorities—like Mrs. Kennedy's fall collection '62, which really did change the way we all thought about empire waists and formal gloves,” she said, more than a little bit defensively.

“Well it's a good thing this is documented. Someone should know this.”

“Yes, that is important.” Then she looked deeply into my eyes. “There's so much to tell and it's very important that someone know it.”

I was more than happy to be the repository for Helen's collected wisdom. “I'm fascinated, Helen. I want to know it all.” A rustling sound from the dark beyond the bookcases broke the tension. Helen began shooing me away.

“You should go now. We'll have plenty more time to talk.” She opened the entranceway and pushed me out. “There's a shortcut out onto 17th Street. Climb halfway up the stairs, then follow the tunnel on your right. It will lead you up through a manhole in front of the Old Executive Office Building.”

I did exactly as directed. It was a tight and smelly squeeze—and it was blocked at the top by an ice cream truck. I waited till the sun had fallen and the truck had moved to push out the manhole, then hoisted myself up and onto the street. A D.C. cop noticed me climbing out.

“Hey you! What do you think you're doing, climbing out a manhole next to the White House? We're under orange-level alert right now.”

“Actually,” I stammered, “it's only yellow alert right now.”

“Oh, that's right. Sorry to bother you.”

I was off to the Outback.

10

The Alien and Sedition Acts,
or
How I Went to the Outback Steakhouse with Coulter, Crowley, Hannity and Colmes and Almost Lost My Mind

 

“Jesus, you smell!” bellowed Candy as I slid in on her side of the booth at Outback. “You been swimming in the sewers or something?”

“You could call it that.” I'd barely had a minute to wipe off.

“Hey, Miss Joe McCoulter, lemme bum another butt,” said Candy. “Anything to overpower the stench over here.” Ann Coulter sat on the other side, squeezed between Sean Hannity and Alan Colmes. She'd nearly filled her saucer-turned-ashtray to the brim and she was still puffing away. A copy of her latest best seller,
Seditio
n—
the last in her “Love It or Leave It” trilogy—was on the table.

“You remember Ann, don't you, Mo?” Candy asked as Ann gave her a cig.

“Of course I do.” I had met Ann on several occasions. She was a lightning rod, someone who believed more than half of what she said, remarkable by Washington standards. She was also a lot of fun, if you could keep her off politics. “How are you?”

“Fine, Mo, fine. I'm just trying to explain to our Clintonista pal over there”—she gestured to Candy—“and this little bozo over here”—she elbowed Colmes; he smiled awkwardly—“that Mussolini in fact was very funny. It's all in my book. And seriously, Candy, I challenge you to find annotated proof anywhere that Mussolini was never in fact charming.”

“Christ, Ann, maybe we should be eating somewhere where you can order Chicken Pol Pot.”

“No, Candy, NO.” Ann was becoming agitated. “The fact of the matter was that Pol Pot was a dickless son of a bitch. A complete and total pussy who let the Vietnamese drive him off course, not surprising since he was an extremist
Liberal.
So don't give me that shit.”

“That's my girl,” Hannity said, his arm around Ann. Ann nearly swallowed her cigarette, she was so worked up.

I had to intervene. “Guys, I know I just got here but can't we just relax?”

Colmes spoke up ever so softly and haltingly. “I think that Mo has made a very good point.”

“Shut your pie hole!” Ann snapped at him. He winced. She then turned to me. “You're absolutely right, Mo. Let's talk about you,” she said, surprisingly sweetly. “Haven't seen you in ages. I'm so glad you're off that Traficant show. What a communist.”

“Jim was many things, I'm just not sure he was a communist. But I appreciate it. I'm happier now.”

“Cool beans,” said Ann.

An earthy but attractive waitress with a “Free Saddam, Hunt Down Bush” T-shirt and John Kerry for President button approached us. Hannity instinctively stuck out his chest. The waitress didn't notice. “Excuse me, you two. But the restaurant has a strict no-smoking policy.”

“Then I'm going to stop killing myself right this instant,” said Candy, who put out her cigarette in the saucer and popped a Nicorette. Ann looked straight ahead and defiantly took another drag on her cigarette. The waitress wasn't cowed.

“Miss, it's a no-smoking policy. No exception.”

Ann turned to her with the fakest smile she could muster. “I'm so sorry, sweetie. I must not have heard you, hon.” She placed the cigarette in the saucer, then exaggeratedly slapped her hands against each other, as if she were finished with her dirty work. “All done!” she grinned with a mock-girlish enthusiasm.

The waitress's eye roll was a giveaway that she recognized Ann. She left, shaking her head.

Ann dropped the Shirley Temple act instantly. “John Kerry for President,” she scoffed. “Commander-in-Chief?! Dammit, I'm embarrassed to have a vagina.” She picked the still-lit cigarette up and ostentatiously resumed puffing. “You realize that that little slut is a living breathing example of sedition, don't you?” As Ann finished her cigarette, Colmes was waiting with one freshly lit by him.

“Ann, I agree that the T-shirt is a little much but sedition is a pretty serious—” I began.

“I'm not talking about the T-shirt, Mo. I'm talking about the Kerry button. Anyone conspiring to ‘overthrow, put down, or destroy' the government of the United States is guilty of sedition. And that's what the Kerry voters want—to put down this government.”

“Yes, by
voting
it out,” I said. I could only accommodate her so much.

Ann shook her head hard and kept puffing. “Voting it out, putting it down, what's the difference? It's still sedition. And according to Title 18, Section 2384 of the United States Law—which I, for your information, did not make up—it is
outlawed.
The only thing I'd change is I'd make it punishable by death.”

This got a rise out of Candy. “Death? Christ, Ann, you want everyone who votes for a Democrat to be put to death?”

“If that's what it takes to make this country safe again, then yes, Candy. Because guess what?
I
happen to love my country.” Ann was puffing so hard, she was shrouded in a cloud of white smoke. That's when the waitress returned, looking none too pleased.

“Uh-oh, here we go,” sighed Candy, resigned to yet another Coulter spectacle. I had never witnessed one of Ann's famed knock-down drag-outs in person. On TV she would stake a claim that even her staunchest partisans were afraid to take and she'd do a surprisingly good job of defending herself. Smoking at the Outback seemed smaller stakes than the legacy of the Red Scare, though.

The waitress wasted no time getting personal. “Miss, I guess I'm surprised that you of all people are not understanding some basic law and order here.” She glanced down at the copy of
Sedition.
“Maybe you should be carrying a dictionary. ‘Prohibited' means ‘against the law.' ”

The battle lines were drawn. Ann was facing an unambiguously smug opponent. Suddenly she was Dick Nixon staring down the haughty East Coast establishment. She wasn't going to skulk away to some backroom to plot revenge, then deny responsibility, though. A liberal Democrat with balls, a threat to national security, was standing in her crosshairs. It was time to unload a bunker buster.

“Thanks for the explanation, Justice Ruth Bader Lezbo, but guess what?” she taunted. “It's not a law. A
rule,
yes,” she puffed on her cigarette, “but not a law.” Hannity snickered. Colmes looked terrified—and aroused.

The waitress laughed. “You actually think that insulting me is going to work?”

“Oh, sweetie, don't take what I say so seriously. I'm sure you've laid all kinds of dirtbags in your day. You know, we should get you down to Gitmo. The prisoners down there would love a whore like you.”

I had to say something. “Ann, can we please go someplace else? I think it's a little unfair to expect the restaurant to let us smoke.” I used “us” because, frankly, I was too scared to challenge her directly.

“Fine. Let me put this out first.” For a split second, I thought Ann had come to her senses and backed down—until she suddenly grabbed the waitress's right wrist and began grinding the cigarette into her hand! The waitress shrieked.

“Holy shit, Ann! You've lost your mind!” screamed Candy.

I reached across the table and pushed Ann against the banquette, away from the waitress. The waitress managed to wrest away her hand. She looked at the burn with wide-eyed horror, then narrowed her eyes at Ann.

“You fascist bitch,” she snarled.

“You can do better than that,” Ann laughed, then took another puff off her weapon and exhaled. “Bring it on.”

The waitress leaped forward and started strangling Ann. Ann was unfazed. The cigarette still dangled from her lips.

“Smoking! . . . Is! . . . PROHIBITED!” raged the now unhinged waitress, tightening her grip. The best I could do was try to pull the waitress from behind but years of hiking and gorp consumption had made her strong as an ox. Only Hannity and Colmes were in a position to help stop the madness but they seemed paralyzed.

“Playtime's over,” said Candy, who opened her purse and reached for her pearl-handled revolver.

“Candy, no,” I snapped. “That's not the answer.”

Candy crossed her arms and sat back. “I tried.”

Meanwhile Ann was turning beet red, eyes bulging, her body trembling from the lack of oxygen as the waitress gripped harder. Like the flag at Iwo Jima, though, the cigarette was still there. This could well be her last breath and she knew what to say.

“From . . . my . . . cold . . . dead . . . hands.” Other restaurant patrons had gathered round and began screaming—a couple of them even tried to help me, to little avail. Then with her trembling left arm Ann felt her way around the Bloomin' Onion to a bottle of Corona. She carefully lifted it up and smashed it over Colmes's head, creating a jagged weapon. Before she could plunge it into her enemy's face, the waitress came to her senses and jumped back.

“Are you fucking crazy?” she asked. It was a reasonable question.

Ann shook her head, amused. “Democrats. Always weak on defense.” She took a sip of water, stood up, and hobbled out of the restaurant still puffing away.

Hannity was halfheartedly holding a wadded-up napkin against Colmes's profusely bleeding head wound. “I'm sorry for bleeding on the tablecloth, Sean,” stammered Colmes. Hannity wasn't listening but looking off in Ann's direction. “She's going to go hook up with Drudge, I know it,” he muttered desperately before giving his ailing cohost one last look. “Sorry, guy.” He instantly let the napkin drop and chased after Ann. “Hey, Ann, wait up!”

It all seemed so surreal. I turned to Candy.

“Politics,” she shrugged, then turned to the waitress. “Could you wrap up the rest of the onion?”

11

Federalist Smackdown

 

“Take a deep breath. You're hysterical,” Helen said.

I'd made my way back to her lair; I'm not sure why. Something told me she'd give me perspective. But first I needed to be talked down. I was hyperventilating.

“And Ann was so angry and Candy had a gun and the waitress's flesh was burning and Colmes was just bleeding everywhere.” My voice started to crack. “Oh, Helen—”

Helen pulled my head to her breast and dabbed it with a cold compress. “There, there, Colmes'll be fine. The truth is, he likes getting roughed up. That's his job.” Helen was so motherly and I didn't want to reject her, but pressed up against her like that, my nose immediately began itching. Was there a cat somewhere? I backed off as I let out a big sneeze.

“Bless you, dear!” Helen exclaimed.

“Pardon me. Anyway, Helen, I couldn't believe the disgusting display. I can appreciate people disagreeing but it was so uncivil, so deeply personal. Violently
personal.
Maybe I'm sounding naive.”

“You're sounding naive. If I've learned anything about Washington culture, it is that it's about extremes. On the one hand you've got the cocktail party set who like to make nicey-nice. With them you can't tell the difference between a San Francisco Socialist and a Birmingham Bible Belter. Then you've got the true believers, also known as the Screamers. The problem with them is they don't just believe they know the truth. They
know
they know the truth.”

“Okay, you can call me a drip, but why can't anyone just talk calmly, honestly—and substantively? I'm sure that the Founding Fathers would be appalled—”

“Darling, you're sounding like a drip. You don't think the Founding Fathers could go on the attack? They were the ones who started all this partisan nonsense. Sure, there were a few who tried to keep discourse on a higher level. President Washington was pretty ‘dignified'—which is a nice way of saying he was boring,” she added under her breath.

“Boring?”

“Oh, please. The man's biography was written by a guy named Parson Weems. Jefferson on the other hand? What a life. Kitty Kelley would have gone to town. But I digress. Washington didn't like conflict and more than anything he feared the creation of parties. But the minute he was out and back at Mount Vernon, battle lines were drawn. That's not to say there weren't some calmer voices of reason.”

With that Helen opened up her file and handed me a scrolled-up sheet of parchment. I unfurled it. The title of the document—it appeared to be a transcript of some kind of discussion—written out in calligraphy, read “A crossfire of opinions concerning the Alien and Sedition Acts.”

I only had a workingman's knowledge of the Alien and Sedition Acts, which were the most serious restrictions on freedom of expression ever passed by Congress. Hotly debated in the press, the most infamous of the four articles, the Sedition Act, included a $2,000 fine and imprisonment for “writing, printing, uttering or publishing any false, scandalous and malicious writing” against the President or Congress. Passed by a Federalist-controlled Congress purportedly in response to the hostile behavior of the French Revolutionary government, the acts inflamed allies of Thomas Jefferson and precipitated the creation of the party system in American politics, setting the stage for the electoral revolution of 1800.

At least that was my vague recollection.

The scroll was dated 1798, the second year of John Adams's administration. The names Toddy the bulldog and Buzzy the Briard sheepdog were included below the title.

“Toddy the bulldog belonged to John Adams,” I said, a little uneasy. “And Buzzy was the dog that Jefferson brought back from Paris.”

“So tell me something I don't know,” Helen said flatly. I read on.

October 1, 1798

Tonight!

A CROSSFIRE

of opinions concerning

The Alien and Sedition Acts

To be debated this even in Rittenhouse Town Square

On the Federalist side, Toddy the Bulldog.

On the Jeffersonian Republican side, Buzzy the Briard Sheepdog.

Wassail to be served.

TOWN CRIER:
Come one, come all to witness the Crossfire!

TODDY:
Good evening and welcome to our crossfire, an opportunity to exchange ideas in the hopes of edifying ourselves and the public, all in the service of better governance. On the Federalist side I'm Toddy the bulldog.

BUZZY:
And on the Jeffersonian Republican side, I'm Buzzy the sheepdog. The Federalist-controlled Congress has just passed four articles known as the Alien and Sedition Acts. Are the acts an unnecessary curb on free speech?

TODDY:
Or are they simply meant to protect this young fragile nation against foreign hostilities and the anarchy of the recent French Revolution? Joining us to explore these questions are, on my worthy opponent's side, bestselling author of the Constitution, Mr. James Madison.

BUZZY:
And on my respected colleague's side, architect of our financial system and former aide-de-camp to Washington, Mr. Alexander Hamilton.

TODDY:
Mr. Madison, let's start with you. Can you see any merit in the argument that the national government may need some protection from potentially subversive elements?

MADISON:
Look, Toddy, let's cut to the chase here. Your retro-royalist plot to strip Americans of their newly enshrined individual rights and bigfoot the rest of us with your overbearing London-loving central government is totally transparent. So the only thing I have to say to you is, Shame on you, Toddy the English bulldog, shame on you.

TODDY:
Actually I'm an
American
Bulldog but I—

ALEXANDER HAMILTON:
Can I get a word in edgewise? Let me explain something to our wine-swilling Limoges-lusting France-First friends across the aisle. While you stroll around the plantation, philosophizing about America as some weirdo agrarian utopia, the rest of us are busy building an industrial base and protecting ourselves from enemies. So I guess my question for Buzzy and Mr. Madison is, why do you hate America so much?

BUZZY:
Mr. Hamilton, I don't hate—

MADISON:
Get yourself some new talking points, Hamilton. Neither of us is going to be put down by the hardball tactics you and your Federalist cronies consistently enlist in trying to subvert my Constitution.

HAMILTON:
Your
Constitution? The last time I checked I wrote fifty-two of the Federalist Papers in support of its ratification. You wrote how many?

(Silence.)

MADISON:
I'm not going to respond.

HAMILTON:
How many?

MADISON:
I'm not taking the bait again.

HAMILTON:
Twenty-six, is it?

MADISON:
Twenty-eight!!

HAMILTON:
Oooh, big man with twenty-eight Federalist Papers under his belt. I'm sooo impressed.

MADISON:
You know, Hamilton, you're not just a bastard. You're a total arsehole.

HAMILTON:
Hey, I'd rather be an arsehole than have my lips locked around Jefferson's codger 24/7!

MADISON:
I hope you get shot.

BUZZY:
Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Madison, please!! Can we stick to the issues?

MADISON:
He started it.

HAMILTON:
Sorry, but the numbers don't lie. It's twenty-six, right?

MADISON:
Twenty-eight!!

TODDY:
Enough, gentlemen. Now, Buzzy, here's the way I see it: The President
may
have reason to be nervous about France or any other foreign power who might benefit from discord in this country.

BUZZY:
Yes, Toddy, national security is of the utmost importance but I really don't think criticizing our government is going to make France more likely to invade us. My fear is that the Federalist Party may want these acts signed into law so that they can consolidate power and avoid any criticism at all.

TODDY:
Buzzy, that's an absolutely valid concern and one that I'll bring to President Adams's attention. But grant that an unfettered freedom to criticize the government does smack of mob rule. And who trusts a mob?

BUZZY:
I certainly don't. But trying to suppress a “mob” is only going to create more dissent.

TODDY:
True, true.

BUZZY:
People will only want more freedom more quickly. Besides, inevitably this Republic will become a true democracy as more people are given the right to vote.

TODDY:
I certainly concede that point. But until then how do we balance security concerns with liberty?

BUZZY:
Well, I think we should agree that
treasonous
acts are outlawed—acts of deliberate betrayal against the government, rather than written words that purportedly incite rebellion.

TODDY:
That, my friend, sounds like a fair compromise. We certainly don't want to violate a central freedom we just fought so hard to safeguard. It would be too too ironic. I think we should also engage the French and English in strict policies of neutrality to minimize threats from overseas.

BUZZY:
Good point. That is what President Washington advised us in his Farewell Address.

TODDY:
Then it's settled. Now this has been a very fruitful discussion. Mr. Hamilton, what do you think? Mr. Hamilton?

BUZZY:
Mr. Hamilton?

HAMILTON:
Was someone talking?

BUZZY:
Well, yes. We were just having what I think was a productive discussion.

HAMILTON:
That's great because I was just having what I think was a productive naptime.

BUZZY:
Mr. Madison, do you have any thoughts?

MADISON:
Yes. First of all, this show is in trouble. You're doing it all wrong.

TODDY:
How would you prefer we behave?

MADISON:
Oh, I don't know. Like dogs? Call Buzzy a mongrel.

HAMILTON:
Maybe bite him.

MADISON:
At least bark.

HAMILTON:
There's more barking on
The Burr Factor
and they just have one host. No wonder more people show up at their town square.

MADISON:
You should try to rip his throat out.

(Hamilton laughs.)

MADISON:
What's so funny?

HAMILTON:
I'm trying to imagine you ripping someone's throat out. How tall are you? Twenty-six inches?

MADISON:
Twenty-eight!!!

(Madison lunges at Hamilton.)

BUZZY:
Oh dear.

TODDY:
Please join us tomorrow when our guests will discuss this year's wedge issue, the three-fifths clause of the Constitution.

It was quite a read. The hosts were so cordial and the guest debaters were like animals.

But of course this was all fiction. Who knew that the leading lady of the American press corps was a closet short-story writer?

“How did you make it look so old?” I asked, referring to the wrinkled scroll.

“I didn't. Two hundred-plus years will do that to a piece of paper.”

“So this is original. It just happens to include two dogs. Helen, do you really expect me—?”

But before I finished the question, I heard Wolf Blitzer's voice in my head. “Mo-san, you must keep an open mind. And believe.” Wolf had never actually said those words but they seemed like words he would have said if confronted with a scene like this.

Helen was pondering the scroll. “It might interest you to know that Toddy ended up advising President Adams to veto the legislation. But Adams chickened out. He was too afraid of what his ‘supporters' in the Federalist Party would do if he didn't sign it. So he signed it. Then he tried to make it up to the Virginians by making peace with the French and talking a lot about individual liberty. Poor guy tried so hard to stay in the middle of the road he got run over,” Helen said, adding cryptically, “not that there's anything wrong with roadkill.”

“Yes, Adams got devoured by the party system,” I said. “Only Washington was strong enough to remain above party division.”

“Then in came Jefferson, our first partisan President,” said Helen.

“So whatever happened to that run of Crossfire?” I asked.

“It did well for a while and played most of the town squares in prime time before it started getting very very shouty. At first that excited people. But by the time Monroe was President people had turned against it. All they wanted to watch were minstrel shows. Lord, that was a vapid time.”

“You're referring to the Era of Good Feelings,” I said.

“ ‘Good Feelings'?” Helen shook her head. “Everyone acted like they were on Prozac. Monroe ended up running unopposed in 1824.”

Helen did have a point there. The only thing worse than a stupid debate was no debate.

But I still had a question about the Alien and Sedition Acts. “After all was said and done, do you really think Hamilton believed those acts were justified?”

Helen laughed. “He rails against the dangers of sedition, then three years later he starts the
New York Post.”
She pointed to a yellowed clipping on her wall.

“They had Page Six back then?”

“And it was actually on the sixth page,” Helen added. “Life was so much simpler.”