Who Let the Dogs In?

by Molly Ivins

  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’l
l put mine up against his any time.” Reporters stood there, pencils frozen. “Did he say that? Did you hear him say that?”

  The Washington Post was driven to describe him as “the Cliff Barnes of American politics—blustering, opportunistic, craven and hopelessly ineffective all at once.” Which was as nothing, of course, compared to the fact that Bush voluntarily renounced his Texas citizenship in 1984, taking a $123,000 tax deduction by claiming his real residence is in Kennebunkport, Maine. It came as quite a relief for those of us who had been trying to explain how a Texan could behave so much like a Yankee.

  THERE IS ALWAYS a curious duality in reactions to George Bush. Some people listen to him and immediately say, “Preppy dweeb.” Others hear him on a good day and come away impressed, saying, “This guy has a lot of knowledge and a lot of experience. He is not a lightweight.” I have never forgotten his courageous defense of his vote in favor of the 1968 Civil Rights Act. There was hell to pay in his district back in Houston when he came home—screaming, abuse, threats—but he wouldn’t apologize, wouldn’t back down. He just said, “All in all, it’s a good law.”

  As it happens, that’s the last time I can recall Bush doing anything that required courage. He is one of those people neither time nor circumstance has treated kindly. God knows, he started with enough gifts and talents and advantages, but somehow he seems to become less as he gets older.

  Trouble with Bush is, he’s a lickspittle even when he has a choice. Go back to Watergate and look at his record.

  Bush was named ambassador to the United Nations by Nixon and then Republican Party chairman in the midst of the Watergate scandal. The stink of corruption from that administration was the least of it—the arrogance, the contempt for the law, the killing, the despotism—Nixon was probably certifiable by the end. Through it all, George Bush burbled inanely, chirruped cheerfully, and ignored all sins large and small.

  He was a toady, a bootlicker, and a sycophant. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t need a job.

  March 1988

  The Word’s the Thing

  TOLD YOU SO. I told you George Bush was going to turn out to be more fun than a church-singin’-with-supper-on-the-ground. How can you not love his thing thing? They asked him why he thought he was trailing Michael Dukakis, and the veeper said it’s the problem he has with “the vision thing.”

  He’s also having a little difficulty with the minority thing. A few weeks ago, Bush was commiserating with a black ghetto kid who said he hated homework. “Ah,” said Bush, “comme ci, comme ça.” Yo, mo’-fo’. Reporters traveling with Bush have taken to keeping track of his French. “He’s back on ‘C’est la vie.’ Three times today.”

  Next, Bush was interviewed by Ted Koppel, whom he kept calling “Dan.” Koppel was finally reduced to pleading, “Please, Mr. Vice President, don’t call me Dan. It’s so Freudian. Call me Peter, call me Tom, anything but Dan.”

  I think this is not a Dan thing but a word thing with Bush. While trying to express how close he is to President Reagan, Bush said, “For seven and a half years I’ve worked alongside him, and I’m proud to be his partner. We’ve had triumphs, we’ve made mistakes, we’ve had sex.” He didn’t mean that: “Setbacks, we’ve had setbacks,” he quickly amended. There’s just slippage from time to time in the links between his mouth and his mind.

  The continuing debate over whether Bush is a Texan surfaced again during the state Democratic convention, when some fun-lovers rented Bush’s “home”—his address of convenience, a suite at the Houstonian Hotel—and held a Bologna Bash and Boogie here. The bookcases in Bush’s “house” feature Reader’s Digest Condensed Editions. Also, it should be noted for the record, real Texans do not use the word summer as a verb.

  Texas Agriculture Commissioner Jim Hightower, reflecting on Bush’s “stay-the-course” strategy, said, “If ignorance ever goes to $40 a barrel, I want the drillin’ rights on that man’s head.”

  August 1988

  Brave New Age

  I HAVE JUST RETURNED from a New Age spa. I am in harmony and in balance, I am integrated, in touch with Father Sky and Mother Earth, living in the now and open to the universe.

  I went to get in touch with my body. High damn time, too. My body and I have not been on speaking terms for years. “Listen to your body,” they kept telling us, “listen to your body.” My body just rolled along like Old Man River, he don’t say nothin’.

  Finally, on the fourth day, I said to it, “Body,” I said, “how’d you like to go to the Vigorous Toning with Resistance Class at 9 A.M.?”

  Clear as a bell, my body answered, “Listen, bitch, do it and you die.” Great, I’m finally in touch with my body and it turns out to have the personality of an unpleasant Mafioso.

  I heard from it several more times that week. It stopped a mountain hike one morning by announcing, “You have a stone in your left shoe, stupid. Stop and take it out.” That kind of thing. Never got any friendlier.

  I hardly ever get to be on the cutting edge of a trend, but here I am, fair chockablock with mind-body awareness. This is the latest development in the fitness craze. The people who brought you jogging are now out to aerobicize your spiritual life. Meditation has married the long-distance hike and the push-up can be improved by crystals.

  The spa, Rancho La Puerta in Baja, California, is a lot like camp for grown-ups, just with different b.s. Instead of singing “Kumbaya,” we went to T’ai Chi and learned the Dance of the Five Elements. I tried meditation and seriously considered spending half an hour a day for the rest of my life concentrating on the sensation of air going in and out of my nostrils. I decided against it.

  Spend a week eating nothing but baby vegetables in strange colors (the tomatoes are yellow, the lettuce is red, the bell peppers are purple) and it will make you feel better.

  I just get tired of all the concentration on self. My body, my spirit, my right brain, my center, my chi, my chakras. Don’t any New Age people ever feed the hungry, clothe the naked, or shelter the homeless? They do spend a lot of time Visualizing Peace.

  TWO YEARS AGO, I went to an Old Age spa near Dallas, also known as a fat farm, where the ladies all wore their daytime diamonds to exercise class in the swimming pool. Even at Old Age spas, they try to improve your self-esteem. My friend Marlyn went to a walking clinic and the instructor told her she had perfect stride. I went to makeup class and the makeup lady assured me I have a fabulous space between my eyes. But Marlyn topped even that: Her masseuse told her she has great elasticity.

  I knew we were in trouble one night at the Old Age spa when a lady proposed we go around the dinner table and each say who we were going to vote for in November. Instead of saying, “Bush,” as I had hoped, all the ladies in their daytime diamonds said, “George, of course.” Marlyn had to confess to being a Democrat. There was a horrified silence and the lady who had proposed the game asked, with perceptible disgust on her face, “Do you . . . work?”

  I like the New Age much better, but I got in trouble there, too. I was stuck one afternoon when we were instructed, “Think of something about yourself you really like and then hold it close to your center: because before we can have peace in the world, all of us must each learn to love ourselves.” Oh hell, where’s my center? What do I like about myself? World peace depends on it. Then it came to me: I have a fabulous space between my eyes. I tucked that right into my center.

  In keeping with the New Age spirit of detachment, I refused to become upset upon returning to Texas and finding that some tanker called the Mega Borg was leaking oil all over our beaches. (Sounds like something from a space-invaders movie, no? “We’re at Warp Six now, sir, and the Mega Borg is still gaining on us!”)

  What is is meant to be, quoth I serenely. And you see how well it works? The Mega Borg stopped leaking, Congress refused to amend the Bill of Rights in order to deter flag burners, and George Bush came out for new taxes. Ommmmmmmmm.

  August 1990

  Confusion, Uproar, and Upset


  YOICKS! THE PEROT-NISTAS are upon us. Here in Texas, where the vertically impaired billionaire who sounds like a Chihuahua is running ahead of both President George Bush and Bill Clinton in the polls, the Perot-nistas are everywhere. It makes my populist heart beat faster, it does, it does, to watch all those ladies in polyester pantsuits and guys in lime-green leisure suits scouring the countryside for signatures on their petitions, not a natural-fiber snob in the whole herd.

  They’re organizing themselves, you know. Choosing their own state chairs, setting up their own committees and work shifts. It’s almost like . . . well, it’s sort of . . . what I mean is, it looks a lot like democracy in action, friends. So naturally the entire Establishment is shitting bricks. Isn’t it lovely?

  What a splendid year this has been: confusion, uproar, and upset. The three candidates who have enjoyed surges, much to the horror of the Insiders (I’m never exactly sure who I mean by that, but George Will looking as though his hemorrhoids were paining him always comes to mind), are Patrick Buchanan, Jerry Brown, and Ross Perot. What all three have done is crystallize and articulate our discontents and anger. Alas, none of them has put forth much of a program to fix things. Still, it’s been great fun to watch the Beltway Boys squirm.