It was gracious. One could only respond in kind. “Mr. Stallone,” I said, “I don’t go around getting in the ring with people who can do one-arm push-ups.”
“Ah,” he said sadly, “I can’t do them anymore. I hurt my arm.”
We grinned at each other, we shook hands. I think we were in silent league (for the modest good it could do) against the long reductive reach of the media.
Afterward, I would smile at the cost of such knowledge. It had taken me ten years of boxing to come up with a glimmer of pugilist’s wit—what if I don’t knock him out in the first round?—yes, one boxed for the better footing it could offer in the social world, and one could even believe, yes, absolutely, that boxing was one of the sixty things a man should learn if he is to get along in this accelerating world, so farewell, Gramercy Gym, gray lady of my late middle age, I will always be loyal to you.
Clinton and Dole: The War of the Oxymorons
(1996)
Oxymoron—n. [Greek oxymoron, fr. neut of oxymoros, oxy- sharp, keen + moros dull, foolish]; a figure of speech in which opposite or contradictory ideas are combined (e.g., thunderous silence, sweet sorrow, purple yellow)
THEY WERE THE SAME AGE—which might be about all they had in common. Still, Norman did remember their one meeting. It had only lasted a couple of minutes, but sometime in the early nineties, as one of the perks after a Folger Library gala, he was ushered with a couple of authors into Dole’s Senate office, a predictable domain. It could boast of a gracious chamber, large windows, a commodious balcony. On the instant of their meeting, he had, however, been surprised. Expecting an encounter with a stern and somewhat wooden figure—the senator certainly looked no less on television—he was taken aback. When they said hello, Dole’s eyes danced with private humor, as if he were ready to say: “You don’t know the first thing about me, Mailer.” It worked.
Novelists live for the moment when their imaginations come alive, since such a moment can feel as good as a match being struck in the dark. Afterward, he never discounted Dole. There had been too much light in the eye.
So he was not startled when surprises popped up in the last week before the San Diego convention. Indeed, he blessed the gods for having made him a writer of fiction. It might be that only a novelist could hope to understand this particular Republican candidate.
His confidence was that he was ready to make a few guesses concerning that inscrutable inner life Dole would hardly bring to an interview. Did one desire to comprehend the senator’s motives? That seemed an effort worthy in itself. Be brave enough to divine him. What else, after all, was the domain of the novelist? So, he would write about Dole as if he understood him well.
All right, then. A plunge. One night in the mind of Bob Dole as he approaches San Diego in July 1996 to accept the nomination for president of the Republican Party.
They kept saying, “Character. Bring up the issue of character.” Win on character? Didn’t think you could. Didn’t like politicians who looked to impress with character. Grated on him. Besides, certain things—damned if he would discuss them. Nitty-gritty of nursing. Being nursed. Pretty degrading.
Wounds of war come down to being helpless. Couldn’t take care of himself for close to three years. Why talk about that? Shipped home in a body cast, lost one kidney, lost more than seventy pounds, lost control of this and that, whatever. Didn’t look into a mirror those years. Hell of a cadaver looked back. Thirty-nine months to put hospitals behind him. His right arm would never move well. Never again. Had to keep a black pen clutched in his right fist so you wouldn’t try to shake hands. Everybody knew that. Except they didn’t. Always trying to shake hands.
Somebody told him of a writer named Ernest Hemingway who said, “Don’t talk about it.” He wouldn’t. Keep what virtue you can retain. Don’t put it on the air. Certainly nothing good. A man lies wounded. In real pain. Gets to know the air. All the air around him. Knows that forever. Air is as alive as you and me. So, keep what you have learned. Don’t put it on the air. Keep that secret chamber. If no one knows your next move, your surprises can pick up some smack. But what surprises? Problems do not guarantee a solution. Still, the idea of Clinton beating him. That would be awful. Sweet Billy Clinton didn’t have enough ethics to worry that he was betraying his ethics. Trouble was, Billy had one positive quality: his heart was in the right place. And it was big. Big as a field of cowflop. Hang around him, you take off your shoes, you put on boots. Billy could cry for others as quickly as another man zips up his pants. Of course, Billy’s butt was owned by fat cats. Probably why his other part got inflamed so often. Heart and the other part were all that was left to him. Corporate suits owned Clinton’s nuts. Dole was sure he could do better. Had lived with the big boys for a long time, and they didn’t own his testicles. Just held a mortgage on them.
Unkind thoughts about Billy weren’t going to get him anywhere, however. Not with people these days. They want you softhearted. Back to first principles. It’s basic. Use an oxymoron. Put opposites together. Art of politics. Use every oxymoron you can get away with. Marry incompatibles. Get twice as many votes. Speak of family and freedom as if they are one. The virtues of the family are many, particularly at Christmastime. What isn’t said: family happiness is obtained by losing a considerable amount of your freedom. Of course, there never was a dictator who failed to talk up the virtues of the family. But then fascists were emperors—emperors of the oxymoron.
Trying to copy Clinton might be an infectious disease, but he had caught Billy’s bug. The kind of light you get from fever, he had it now. Wanted to win. Could do it if he played a good game. Had to keep telling himself: think it through.
After all, Republicans had one real achievement: They had made it impossible for that old Democratic Party to survive. Survive, that is, as their old Democratic Party. Reagan had run the debt up. Then Bush. Now it had gotten to where every Democrat who got in had to work to reduce debt. Had to dismantle their Great Society. Couldn’t afford it anymore. Law of reversal. Now, a strong Republican could get away with running up a new deficit. Could claim it was the Democrats’ fault. After all, wasn’t it always Democrats who went to war? Then it took Republicans to make peace. Couldn’t be otherwise. No Democrat can end a war. How could he? Republicans would beat him to death for lack of patriotism. For cowardice. By contrast, no Republican president could go to war without half of America getting full of distrust. Democrats, anyway. Look at Bush’s trouble getting into war with Iraq. So, there’s an edge. Only a Republican can run up a new deficit. Could be his surprise. Get elected on tax cuts. Extra money is as valuable to the American people as elixir of libido. Great stuff, elixir of libido.
Of course, they would say he was helping to bring about breakdowns in family values. Extra money could certainly lead to more infidelity. Well, you get elected and that gives you a bully pulpit. Try to undo the damage done getting elected. First things first.
Daring idea. But feasible. Larger your oxymoron, more chance it has. Cut taxes. Insist you can balance your budget. Brings the two halves of the Republican Party together. Certainly has to stimulate curiosity. People will ask, Does Dole succeed or fail on this promise? People want to know what happens next.
Of course, you don’t want to get into details. Can’t speak of cuts in Social Security or Medicare. Equal to being dead in the water. Only other real solution: end corporate welfare. Something to consider. It would take Dole to do it. Just like Nixon was the one to make peace with China. But you can’t mention corporate welfare. Just say: I have the will. I have the will to do it. Trust me. When the debates come, look Clinton in the eye. The fat boy might melt. Nothing lost for trying. Will try it.
Well, tried it, announced it. Didn’t work. No credibility. Not even for Dole. War wounds worth less these days. Credibility has to be reinforced. Buttressed. Consider it. Jack Kemp for running mate. Will guarantee credibility on your tax cut. Kemp’s been talking about it for years. So, Dole-Kemp could wake this convention up. Tan
tamount to Mae West strolling down center aisle stark naked.
Dole-Kemp will do it. The trick is to keep telling yourself: an election campaign is not cut in stone. Not like legislation. For the Senate, you have to respect legislation. How can a nation survive all the bad bills that get passed if there aren’t a few good ones? Keel of government. Underline that. As a legislator, you have to be responsible. Some of the time.
As a presidential candidate, it’s opposite. Be ready to get away with what you can. Look at Reagan. Easier to catch a fly with your thumb and forefinger than to corner Reagan on a weak point. Emulate Ronnie. Don’t look back. Most voters are not living in Kansas. So stop treating them as if they are smart enough to read character. Failing memory is the fastest-growing disease of the twentieth century. People do not wish to have to recall what was said five days ago.
All the same, don’t go off half-cocked. Calculate media cost. They’ll bring up those jokes. What were they? How long ago was that? He had said, “If Jack Kemp were smart, he would corner the market on hair spray instead of undergoing all that personal expense.” Something like that. Kemp had an answer. Not a bad one. Talked about poor Bob Dole. Said how sad it was that this fire burned down Dole’s house. However, Dole’s library was saved. Both of his books were intact. That was nice, because Dole hadn’t yet finished his coloring book.
Well, he couldn’t laugh all the way home, not over that one. Kemp had upped the ante. Ergo, do unto others as they do unto you. Our good news, Dole had said, is that Jack Kemp and some of his supply-siders were in a bus crash. The bad news is that three of the seats were empty.
You could say he had gone too far. Had to watch that streak. Dark, Dole, dark. The media would swarm over those jokes. Still, it would keep everybody paying attention to Dole-Kemp. Do those two guys get along? Do they not? Will produce narrative interest. And Kemp will be loyal. For the next couple of months, anyway. Had to. Would want to be elected vice president. And no need to worry about a change of life in office. It’s all in an old Italian saying. Heard it in Italy: revenge is a dish that people of taste eat cold. He could live with the joke about the coloring book.
Would Kemp accept his offer? Would Neil Armstrong refuse to take a first step for mankind? Dole knew political figures when they were making policy on the inside. Knew them when they were pushed outside. He had installed some fellows in good places. Had maneuvered a few gentlemen out. Been inside and outside himself. At one point, Nixon had turned chilly. That hurt. Practically speaking, you could call it one big crisis of identity. Left you feeling small.
Now Kemp had been out for a while. Called it living in his “wilderness years.” But he was going to call Kemp back to the fray. That would do it. How could Kemp not love him? All the same, he couldn’t approve of Kemp altogether. Talked too much. Very little Kemp wouldn’t put on the air. Nonetheless! Dole-Kemp. A Mac Whopper of an oxymoron.
He was hearing it all over the place. An enthusiastic crowd was waiting for them. Good for warming the bones. In front of the courthouse in Russell, he introduced Kemp to a large group—all home folks. Called him an “American original.” Of course, you could say that Dole was an American original. For that matter, so was Sweet Billy Clinton. Whatever. And Jack Kemp, when he got up to talk to the folks in Russell, mentioned that at lunch he had asked Bob Dole how long he wanted him to speak, and Dole had answered, “Kemp, you can speak as long as you want, but we’re only going to be here for five more minutes.…”
We must prepare for a shock. We are going to move over to Jesse Jackson giving a speech on August 27 at the Democratic convention. Jesse Jackson may be our greatest orator, but his voice is sometimes muffled by all his withheld sounds—rage of frustration, clamped-down sobs of exasperation, the dark vibration of this year’s patience compressed upon last year’s patience. Sometimes you can hardly hear him. Truth, there are many whites who would not wish to hear him, a majority doubtless. Still, he said it on Tuesday night, August 27, 1996, in Chicago, like no one else happened to be saying it these days. Let us put up his words as a benchmark by which we can measure both conventions by their resolute inability to look into the eye of the issues, the few real issues:
One-tenth of all American children will go to bed in poverty tonight. Half of all America’s African American children grow up amidst broken sidewalks, broken hearts, broken cities, and broken dreams. The number one growth industry in urban America: jail. Half of all public housing built to last ten years. Jails. The top 1 percent wealthiest Americans own as much as the bottom 95 percent.… We must seek a new moral center.
The ghostly tone of the Democratic Convention in Chicago can more easily be found, however, in the following speech:
We Democrats believe that the family, fueled by values, must be restored to the central place in American life if we are to keep the dream alive. Yet families cannot thrive and pass on these beliefs if parents cannot bring home a decent, living wage for a hard day’s work.… In this richest nation on earth, we still have not solved the problems of poverty … which tear away at the roots of strong families.… We have to make sure that reduced government spending does not single out just the poor and the middle class. Corporate welfare and welfare for the wealthy must be the first in line for elimination.… It is the entitlement state that must be reformed and not just the welfare state. And we must do it in a way that does not paint all of government as the enemy.
We are a big enough party—and big enough people—to disagree on individual issues and still work together for our common goal: restoring the American Dream. I am a Democrat because I believe in that dream, and I believe we are the ones to keep it alive.
A liberty has been taken. Two words were changed. “Republicans” and “Republican” were altered to “Democrats” and “Democrat.” The speaker was not in Chicago but in San Diego on Monday, August 12, and he was Colin Powell.
Given his remarks on corporate welfare, he is, in fact, to the left of the Democratic Party. Powell was, of course, to the left of the Republican Party as well—there was no other luminary in the GOP who spoke out against corporate welfare at the convention. A year earlier, that had not been so. John Kasich, head of the House Budget Committee, had been looking to wipe out the deficit by the year 2002. He also had to find no less than $200 billion to pay for the tax breaks promised in the Contract with America. For a time, he thought corporate welfare might even be the place to do it. Kasich said in an interview, “I think it is an absolute outrage that some of this crap is still in this budget, and it just infuriates me every day when I think about it.”
It is not the sentiments of men that make history but their actions. Kasich came down from the mountain of $200 billion to $25 billion. Didn’t get anywhere with that, either. By the time he stood at the podium in San Diego, he did not mention corporate welfare. Rather, he spoke of “reattaching our souls to one another,” and “sending a clear message to God that He is being invited back into American life.”
God, who is reputed to mark the fall of every sparrow, might not need an invitation.
Of course, the numbers involving corporate welfare are, to put matters in the politest form, full of discomfort. Stephen Moore of the right-wing Cato Institute has said, if we were able to get rid of all the corporate welfare spending programs, “we could cut our budget deficit in half.”
We can also take a quote from a signally good article on corporate welfare in The Boston Globe on July 9, 1996: “ ‘Clinton initially wanted to make a strong statement on corporate welfare, but backed away,’ an administration source said. He eschewed the words ‘corporate welfare’ in public, the source said, adding: ‘He uses the phrase in private and cabinet meetings, but the phrase is too combative for him.’ ”
Shall we call it corpfare from now on? Corpfare the rich child; welfare the hungry child. We need not be surprised that the Democratic Convention was close to an overlay of the Republican convention.
The American political body had evolved into a highly
controlled and powerfully manipulated democracy overseen by a new species of aristocracy formed at the junction of four royal families—the ten-thousand-dollar suits of the megacorporations, the titans of the media, the high ogres of Congress, and the upper lords of the White House. The inner disputes of a court with four such elements are not easy to follow, but their accords are clear.
Both parties were linked on balancing the budget, increasing the sentences on drug dealers, upgrading the best armed forces in the world and downsizing government (as if the two had no relation to each other!). Both parties would change welfare as we know it. No one asked whether anyone writing the specifications for those changes had any intimate knowledge about what life might be like on welfare.
There were, it is true, a few points of dispute: The Democrats, for example, were tougher on cigarette smoking among adolescents than were the Republicans, and the Democrats were certainly pro-choice. Family values would prevail in both parties except for those special cases where family values might interfere with megasize profits. There, in the realm of film, music, and health management organizations, family values could take a walk.
Given these similarities, we do not have to catalog the Democratic Convention activities either. Details are interesting when a dramatic turn in one event produces an unforeseen shift in another. None of that occurred. No riots, demonstrations, or protests offered enough impact to be closely followed by the media. Both conventions had been prepared so thoroughly for TV that an irony intervened. Except for the last night, the major networks refused to show more than an hour of convention time. The largest question for the media became: Who will win a larger share of the TV public during the prime-time hours on the first night of each convention?
The Republicans brought the deaf, the wounded, the victim of rape to testify to the honor and compassion of Bob Dole; on their initial network hour, the Democrats did not discuss politics at all. What a stroke! The genius of Dick Morris was once more confirmed. Focus groups had given him an ideal speaker for the first night, a nonpolitical person with immense TV impact, none other than Superman, Christopher Reeve, who had broken his neck taking his horse over a jump. In his 20/20 appearance with Barbara Walters last year, he had generated an enormous response. The Democrats, having no one available for their first night with status comparable to Colin Powell, chose Reeve, and he gave one of the best speeches of both conventions. Because everyone knew that he could not move his limbs, the stern small shifts of his lips as he intoned his hard-earned sentiments of compassion occasioned real oratorical intensity. He stirred large emotional depths in the audience, and much of that was in relation to how handsome he was, and how immobile. He was not unlike a mythic idol, human, but made of stone. As he spoke of the need for research, one could see that it was the plainest women who were weeping most. His voice, transmitted through a larynx mike, was stirring precisely because it was small and necessarily measured:
Mind of an Outlaw: Selected Essays Page 54