christastrophe

For rules of The Richard Cohen Project click here.

I think Richard Cohen is trying to kill me. He's aware of the Richard Cohen Project and he's trying to give me a goddamned aneurysm.

So I was too hungover/tired to do my usual installment of TRCP on Tuesday (thanks to the Spaniard show at The Delancey), so I put it off until today. And then, it turns out, the guy went ahead and did a special Thursday edition of his column! What was so great that he couldn't wait until next Tuesday to file?

It is this. It is columns like this that made me choose Richard Cohen over, say, Michael Goldfarb. Richard Cohen is doing his own thing, The Barack Obama Project, where he's writing fan fic about what Obama is thinking about on vacation. It has it all: hack political writing incorporating DC conventional wisdom, a tin ear, and a throwaway boomer reference in the form of a citation of a line from a popular Bob Dylan song. As punishment for all these transgressions I'm having lil' Rich Cohen crap his pants this week.

Anyway, time for his usual Tuesday goodness. Once again, he has treated me well:

Russia is mighty; Georgia is not. Russia is huge; Georgia is tiny. The whole thing is a mismatch from the word go, and the Georgians -- when it is appropriate to do so -- have to be reminded that you do not poke a sleeping bear with a stick.

*****

It is also a refreshing reminder that sprinkling BMW dealerships hither and yon in this or that country does not, in the end, change the culture all that much. Russia, as my grandmother could have told George W. Bush, always fights dirty.

*****

He likes the West. But he ought to be reminded that the West no longer likes him. That, too, is reality.

( Always fighting dirty... )

For rules of The Richard Cohen Project click here.

It's official. I am almost dead certain that Richard Cohen is aware of The Richard Cohen project and he's now just doing his best to help me out. Which is good because I had no idea where this hell this was going last week.

Onward. Thanks, Rich.

Instead, over at Amazon they are inadvertently thinking of ways to make the world worse for children and for the grown-ups who love them to pieces. What Jeffrey P. Bezos, Amazon's founder, wants more than anything is to do away with the book as we know it. "Jeff once said that he couldn't imagine anything more important than reinventing the book," said Steven Kessel, one of Bezos's top guys. Kessel is in charge of digitizing everything in sight.

Nothing more important than reinventing the book? Not ending world hunger?

*****

The book is warm. The book is handy. The book is handsome to the eye. The book occupies the shelf of the owner and is a reflection of him or her or, actually, me. The book is always there, to be reached for, to be thumbed and, too often, I admit, to wonder about: Why did I buy this? My bookcase is full of mysteries.

I loathe Amazon even though I know it is the future and will prevail.

*****

Does Kessel -- "We wake up every day thinking about digital," he once told the New York Times -- even know who Roth was? Roth killed himself in Paris.

*****

I never buy from Amazon unless I have to. I buy from actual bookstores, if I can. You go there and people are browsing or having coffee or staring into open laptops and pretending they're writers or something. If I were younger, I'd go there to pick up girls. I'd look over their shoulders and say, "Oh, 'The Prophet,' a book of eternal truths" -- or some such tripe. (It used to work.)

*****

Bezos will win. Amazon has this device that downloads books. It is called the Kindle, which must be one of those focus group words. Sounds like the German word for children. Sounds like kind. Sounds innocent. Of course, it is not. My friends, book lovers all, have bought Kindles. At first, I was shocked: You? A Kindle? It's like discovering some sort of secret perversion.

( Secret perversions, eh? )

For rules of The Richard Cohen Project click here.

Before anything else, it should be noted that this is easily the crappiest column Richard Cohen has written since I started TRCP. The Carpetbagger Report noticed this as well, comparing Cohen's recent work to an athlete in a slump while dismantling the "logic" of this puff piece. Matthew Yglesias gets a few good kicks in, too.

Most of the stuff Cohen says he admires about McCain is just straight up false. And his whole point that he doesn't know Obama could easily be fixed by, uh, paying attention to what he says or reading his campaign info. Off the top of my head the nuclear non-proliferation deal with Richard Lugar and the public record-keeping of Washington lobbyists were two great, important pieces of bi-partisan legislation he pushed through in his first year. But what do I know? I'm a blogger writing directionless fan fic based on the columns of Richard Cohen. Clearly I'm insane.

With that in mind:

On the other hand, I continued, I could cite four or five actions -- not speeches -- that John McCain has taken that elicit my admiration, even my awe. First, of course, is his decision as a Vietnam prisoner of war to refuse freedom out of concern that he would be exploited for propaganda purposes. To paraphrase what Kipling said about Gunga Din, John McCain is a better man than most.

*****

My guess is that Obama will make a fool of anyone who issues such a judgment about him. Still, the record now, while tissue thin, is troubling. The next president will have to be something of a political Superman, a man of steel who can tell the American people that they will have to pay more for less -- higher taxes, lower benefits of all kinds -- and deal in an ugly way when nuclear weapons seize the imagination of madmen.

The question I posed to that prominent Democrat was just my way of thinking out loud. I know that Barack Obama is a near-perfect political package. I'm still not sure, though, what's in it.

( Near-perfect packages... )

Part I here

Richard Cohen:

To contrast the two speeches is like comparing the screeching of a cat to the miracles of Mozart. Yet today, Carter's speech reads as prescient. Most of his dire predictions -- "It is a problem we will not solve in the next few years, and it is likely to get progressively worse through the rest of this century" -- have generally come true, although not quite as soon or as calamitously as he had warned. The pity of it all is that in American politics, being right is beside the point.

It is not my intention to pummel the late Ronald Reagan for what he did or did not do back in the 1980s. It is my intention, though, to suggest that Reaganism -- to which Republicans now swear allegiance -- has outlived its very short usefulness and ought to be junked. This is not to say that government is the answer to all our ills. It is only to note that if you think the answer is private enterprise, then drive to the nearest gas station and admire the prices brought to you by private companies.

The worst part of Reaganism was its political success. It left behind a coterie of panting acolytes who learned from Reagan himself that optimism, cheerfulness, an embrace of magical thinking and the avoidance of the painful truth was the formula for victory at the polls. For a time, it worked -- the cost of gas went down -- and Carter, that scold in the silly sweater, was banished. As they say in New Orleans, "Laissez les bons temps rouler!" (Let the good times roll!) Upbeat? You bet. But not a business plan.

*****

"Come in, Rich. Come in."

Rich Cohen was new in town, but he understood the power wielded by Deputy Managing Editor Tark Greeley. The Washington Post was the gateway to the world, and he held the keys.

You'd never know it by looking at him, though. Stocky, grim, with a forehead that looked like it hadn't uncurled in about seven years. Tufts of grey in the hair remaining on the side of his head. For a man who held such power, he sure did look like a meatloaf that'd been dropped somewhere.

"Siddown." He commanded. Rich obliged coolly. His bartender Sam had bought him a few rounds to loosen up a bit. He knew this Metro job meant the world to young Rich.

"Hell of a resume, kid."
"Thanks. I typed it myself." Rich removed the toothpick from his mouth. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Go right ahead."

Rich pulled out a cigarette and flicked a match on the underside of his shoe, losing control of his arms, sending match, cigarette and his sunglasses flying into an aquarium next to Greeley's desk. "I'm trying to quit anyway. Filthy habit."

"I was wondering when you were gonna take off those shades."
"Right on," Rich mumbled absentmindedly.

"Well, Rich. This is a hell of a resume, especially for a kid your age. You're obviously qualified, but there are some intangibles I want to be certain of."
"Go on."
"Well, Rich. The Metro desk requires a certain sort of...how can I say this...a street smarts, if you know what I mean. I don't need some college boy throwing around nickle and dime words all over the place. I want to feel the rhythm of the streets from somebody who really understands what it means to live in DC in 1973, understand?"
"Sure."
"Well, then. What do you know about Washington DC, Rich?"

He paused and reached to dramatically pull off his sunglasses, forgetting they were in the fish tank. Damn. He'd rehearsed that move all afternoon. Quick! Improvise!

He flicked the end of his own nose dramatically. "I know it's built on a swamp."
"What did you just do just then? To your nose? Is that code?"
"Relax, man." Rich put his feet up on the desk.
"Alright. So the swamp. Everybody knows that. What else, Rich?"
He leaned in dramatically, checking over both shoulders before continuing. He whispered. "I know where the bodies are buried."

"What? I didn't get that."
Rich flicked his nose again and repeated louder. "I know where the bodies are buried, man."
"I really...is there something on my nose? Why do you keep doing that?"
"It's all over the streets, Mr. Greeley. All the kids are doing it in...Dupont Circle."
"Is that a fact?"
"Yeah. That's a fact." Rich leaned back in his chair, his elbow slipping off the arm rest.

"Well...what can I say? You have a commanding use of tired cliches and a passing awareness of one DC neighborhood. You sound like a Post man to me." He rose and held out his hand.
"Thank you, Mr. Greeley! You won't be disappointed!"
"Well, I hope not, since you're the only applicant we had."
"Excellent. When do I start?"
"How's Monday for you?"
"Great?"
"See you Monday, then."

Rich leaned into the aquarium to retrieve his sunglasses, drenching his tie. "One question, Mr. Greeley."
"Yeah, Rich?"
"When's my first paycheck? I got something in mind for a...special lady."

*****

"Open it."
Maureen studied the manila envelope cautiously. She and Rich had only been seeing each other for two and a half weeks, but theirs was an exhilarating bond. The breathless worship of young lust.

Inside was merely a blank postcard. Of a woman in a feathered mask.

"I don't get it."
Rich flashed her his trademark mischievous grin. "I got the job."
"Oh, Rich that's wonderful! Congratulations! But I don't understand. What does this have to do with your new job?"
"Just a little reward. You ever seen the French Quarter?" He kissed her hand without taking his eyes off of her, grabbing back the postcard, ignoring the paper cut he gave himself, because he was in love.

*****

Richard Cohen is driving as fast as he can stand it, almost 60 miles an hour, and his eyes are blurred from the tears but he just doesn't care anymore. The stereo of his Prius is blaring, screaming his pain to any car within 100 yards.

"Are you reeling in the years???!!!" he demands along with the radio.
"Stowing away the tiiiiiiime!
Are you GATHERING UP THE TEEEEEEEARS??
HAVE YOU HAD ENOUGH OF MIIIIIIIINE!!"

He can't take it anymore. He has to pull over. Need gas anyway, he thinks feebly.

He searches the stars for answers.

He pulls up to the pump, staggers out of his car, and walks a lazy circle around it for no reason in particular. Just moving. Just need to keep moving.

Finally he has moved enough. He pulls out his wallet, ready to swipe his card. But the price catches his eye.

He knows full well, as he storms into the Tigermart, that the high school boy behind the counter has nothing to do with oil speculation or reserves held by the Saudis. He knows that this watery-eyed little fatbody didn't have a thing to do with the weakening dollar, or even understand what it was in the first place that made the dollar weak. This little shitstain isn't the CEO of his own dick, let alone a gigantic oil company.

But this little shitstain is here, and that's good enough.

He doesn't even know for sure where this tirade is coming from. He is yelling about how five dollars for a gallon of gas ought to be a crime, ought to be treason. He's yelling at the top of his lungs about the ways things used to be, how you could drive halfway across the country for twenty dollars. How he's sick and tired of being pushed around. He can't stop screaming because it feels good to be screaming.

The shitstain has seen some of this before, but not to this degree, and his pleas to calm down are ignored and, in fact, become accelerants on the blaze. Calm down I will not fucking calm down and now Richard is really screaming and now he is grabbing bags of potato chips and flinging them all over the place and his voice is breaking and before he knows it he has this fatbody by the green and red collar of his shitty gas station uniform.

He hasn't thrown a punch in years, maybe decades, but it come back to him, that stinging feeling in the knuckles, as he pounds the shitstain continuously in his fat little face. Do you know who I am do you know who I fucking am do you know. The kid shoves him back and tries to slap him away, but Richard is on him again, until the shitstain triggers the alarm, throws a glass case of Slim Jims at Richard's feet, and makes a run for the bathroom.

And now there is quiet, because the shitstain is locked in the bathroom and there is only Richard and the radio overhead, inexplicably turned to a classical radio station. His heart pounds, shoved gracefully on by Mozart's 33rd, the sound of wolves on hunt. He is alone and his eyes are flat and wide.

He tries the doors, but the alarm has shut them automatically. He has nowhere to hide when the sirens descend upon him.

*****

"Rich, we're here!" Maureen crowed excitedly. They'd driven for almost twenty four hours straight, trying to make good time, and Rich was enjoying a nap in the backseat after a night of negotiating the Kentucky highway system.

"Well, I'll be goddamned," he mumbled. "I feel more fun already."

They had no hotel yet (though Maureen's sorority brought the promise of shelter for itinerant sisters). They had no definite plans. But they had three days alone, in an unfamiliar city, and the promise of something good. And for Rich and Maureen, for the time being, that was enough.

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR PART III: "SIN WILL FIND YOU"!

A few weeks ago I picked on Richard Cohen for dusting off his copy of Another Side of Bob Dylan but only half paying attention, and I can't help but notice a pattern emerging. Today's column is, well, I'm starting to read between the lines and I think there's something on Richard Cohen's mind lately.

McCain plods a cruel treadmill. He has thus far sought the endorsement of the extremely purple Rev. John Hagee and the equally purple Rev. Rod Parsley. Both of them were later asked to unendorse on account of offensive things they've said. But to paraphrase Hyman Roth in "The Godfather," this is the business they're in.

*****

Erich Segal's line from "Love Story" -- "love means never having to say you're sorry" -- really applies to faith.

*****

And John McCain, like a spiritual beggar, goes from one right-wing minister to another, ignoring their previous statements of intolerance and hoping for an endorsement. The other day, he didn't even get lunch. He deserved humble pie.

*****

"Black Coffee" by Humble Pie strutted cautiously in the background as the young man in the crumpled shirt and tie slammed down an overturned shot glass.

"To tell you the truth," Richard Cohen bellowed across the bar, "1973 was a piece of shit and I don't see 1974 getting any better."

The bartender faked a sympathetic nod, but these goddamned college kids were always on about this and that, about the past and future as if they made any difference in the world when you have your youth. There is no greater weight than that given every tiny microsecond by a young man of ambition.

Cohen sneered back, misreading the bartender's contempt for some sort of gutter-level camaraderie. He turned to face the rest of the bar, just blocks from the nation's capitol, a seedy little dive with long mirrors on either side to give the illusion of depth. Echo. Rich put his shirtsleeved elbows up on the bar. And his swagger disappeared.

He was alone.

Leaving New York hadn't been easy for Rich. He rolled around in his uncomfortable bed at night, dreaming of his Hunter College friends who'd gone on to bigger and better things. Internships. Grants to travel in Africa and document the atrocities. Ah, fuck 'em. Let 'em do what they want. This isn't Richard Cohen's destiny. Richard Cohen belongs in the trenches.

When this beer gets warm it really tastes like shit. Memories of stolen kisses.

He pulled the last slug he could stand out of his lukewarm bottle of Bud and sorted out the scattered pile of bills in front of him. "Hey Scotty, I'm taking off, alright?" Scotty nodded, somewhat.

Just then the door burst open and two energetic young women dressed in business clothes, a dirty blonde and a brunette, strutted past him into the back room towards the pool tables. They called out to Scotty, who suddenly became the poster child of grace and decorum.

"Hey Scotty, you know those girls?"
"Forget it, Rich. They only like newspaper guys."
"I told you - I've got a bead on that metro desk job with the Post."
"No, Rich. REAL newspaper guys. Opinion columnists."
"Oh." Rich pulled out a cigarette and matches, accidentally lighting his mustache on fire. Scotty obliged by splashing Rich with an already prepared glass of water.

"Thanks, Scotty."
"Anytime."

*****

He is filled with liquid courage now. His eyes are on the dirty blonde, settling in with a group of friends. The smell of an office hangs on all of them. Just off work. Blowing off steam.

"Excuse me, miss?" He approaches their table gently. His eyes are on the blonde, her fawn-like face bursting with glee at something one of her friends has said. She looks like the happiest person in the world in this moment.
"Yes?"
"I think you dropped this." He holds up a bobby pin.
"Uh...well, even if I did...you keep it."
"No problem. I can do that," he purrs softly, knocking over three beers with his elbow. "It's OK - they've got it." Scotty sulks in with a rag.

"Cigarette?"
"Sure. I guess."
He reaches over to her, eyes half lidded, strikes the match, and somehow lights his mustache on fire. "OH! Jeez! Hot!"

She throws her beer in his face. Smoke drifts upwards toward the green track lighting overhead. "You saved my life! That was incredible! What's your name, darling?"

Her name was Eleanor.

"So, have you seen the Godfather Part II yet, Eleanor? I hear it's even better than the first one." And then Rich fell down in a puddle of beer. Eleanor couldn't help herself. She laughed and helped him up. She was charmed.

*****

It is raining, and much harder than when Richard first turned off the lights in his palatial living room. The blue light coming in, reflecting off the backyard pool, dances and stutters around him. He opens the blinds slightly and sits in his favorite leather chair. His glass of cherry coke is sweating profusely. A cherry breaks free of the ice and drops like a stone.

The phone rings and he glances at the caller ID, projected helpfully against the wall. It is Cokie Roberts, that whore. He lets the machine get it.

"Rich?? Are you there??" Strains of a party erupting behind her overwhelmed voice. Kool and the Gang. "Anyway, where are you? We're all here and we're waiting for you. Don't let a little rain get you down. Come on, Rich! It's been forever! We miss you. OK. Call me back."

He sits for a moment, letting the rain lull him into a trance. Life wasn't always like this, such desolation. There was a time, decades before. A time that he felt alive. A summer that sticks in his heart eternally.

He wants to learn what a Google is so he can find her.

But he can't, at least not right now. Now is for sitting and staring. Now is for reflecting on the past, on dirty blonde hair and afternoons spent doing absolutely nothing. Talking about Love Story and comparing it to their brief, tumultuous romance. Listening to Dylan as loud as it can go (without disturbing the neighbors).

The phone rings again. Cokie.

In a white-hot rage he picks up the cherry coke and hurtles it towards the window, but he misses and it just thuds dully against a couch three feet to the left. Great. Now there's cherry coke everywhere.

He stalks into his overflowing pantry to search for some of that stain remover Cindy bought before she left him. It's somewhere back here. Somewhere behind all this mess.

Cokie Roberts' laugh echoes through the house. "Oh, Rich you really have to see this for yourself. Come on! Live a little!" And then a laugh like Hell itself opening up and searching for someone new.

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR PART II: THE PAST RETURNS!!