January 14, 2009
NEVER TOO EARLY TO TRIANGULATE:
Presidential Wisdom: Lessons for Obama (Robert Ferrigno, 1/14/09, National Review)
“Ceremony,” said W. “It’s all about the ceremony, passing on the torch, the keys, the collected presidential wisdom.” He flicked on the big-screen, scrolled through the channels with the sound off. “Every president since Lincoln has passed on the secret location of this room to his successor, except for Billy Clinton. Daddy decided not to tell him about it.” On screen a man was peddling his program on making a fortune buying foreclosed properties, his mouth moving rapidly as he pointed at a fallen-down house with weeds in the yard. “Daddy said there was something about the man he just didn’t trust. Said there was no telling what Billy would do down here.” W. sipped his Nehi. “Course, Billy was the man who kicked Daddy’s butt in the ’92 election, which might have had something to do with it.” He looked over at Obama. “You sure you don’t want a snack or something?”“What are these presidential secrets you wanted to tell me?” said Obama. “Something about Area 51 or the Kennedy assassination?”
W. laughed. “No. You ask me, UFOs are satanic manifestations, and your guess is as good as mine about who killed Kennedy. Heck, maybe it was Lee Harvey Oswald. No, no. I wanted to wise you up about things that might actually help you be a better president.”“With all due respect, George, I really don’t think you’re in any position —”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re the smartest guy in any room you walk into, Barry, but this ain’t the U.S. Senate, where guys who didn’t even pass the bar their first time out get to decide who’s on the Supreme Court,” snapped W. “Maybe, just maybe, you could learn something from the men who’ve come here before you.”
“I’m interested in the future, not the past.”
“Right. Hope, change, and arugula in every salad bowl, I get it.” W. picked up an enormous bag of fried pork rinds off the floor. “Laura says these things’ll kill ya,” he said, crunching away, “but how can anything that tastes this good be bad for you?” He held up the bag.
“No, thanks.”
W. shrugged and changed the channel to the Food Network, where a short, bald American standing on a crowded street in Asia was eating roasted crickets on a stick. “You can leave if you want,” he said, rooting around in the bag of pork rinds. “I’ll see you at the inauguration. Dress warm.”
Obama stayed seated. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to hear what you have to say.”
“No, go on,” said W., watching the television, “I’m sure Slow Joe is wondering where you are. Probably wants to tell you about all the big ideas he’s got in the last 15 minutes. Tell you again what a great team you two are.”
Obama swallowed. “Okay, okay. Talk to me.”
W. glanced over at him. “First off, and this is something you’re going to have trouble believing. but it’s important — the media is your enemy.”
Obama rolled his eyes.
“Trust me, hoss, that tingle Chris Mathews feels running down his leg when he hears you speak isn’t going to be electricity once you’re in office, and just because Charlie Gibson and Maureen Dowd laughed at your jokes for the last year, they’re not going to find a thing amusing about you the day after tomorrow. Remember, they used to think McCain was funny, too, until they decided the ol’ maverick would look a lot better as a gelding. Just wait until you have to make a tough decision, one where there’s no good choice, just a best-of-all-the-rotten-alternatives choice, then see what happens. Go ahead, turn on the charm, give ’em that winner’s smile and see if it works. Just remember, these are the people who published details of our classified terrorist-surveillance program then complained because we hadn’t caught Osama.” W. kept his eyes on the big-screen, where the short, bald American was eating something that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. “General Robert E. Lee once said, ‘It appears we have appointed our worst generals to command forces, and our most gifted and brilliant to edit newspapers.’ ” He winked at Obama. “So, lesson No. 1: The media aren’t your friends, they just liked you better than the other guy. Now you are the other guy.”
Obama folded his hands in his lap, stretched out his legs. Michelle thought La-Z-Boys were ugly and rednecky, but it was comfortable.
“That’s it,” said W., “Take a load off. You’ve got to be able to slip things into neutral and just coast. Otherwise, well, you’ve seen the before-and-after photos. Eight years in the White House is like eight in dog years.”
“That’s why it’s important to eat right and stay fit.”
“Comfort food, that’s what you’ll end up with,” said W., reaching for the pork rinds. “So who do you think your base is?”
“Black folks, of course, and George Soros,” said Obama. “Throw in the Oprah females, guilt-ridden metrosexuals and college-educated vegetarians with 2.2 mountain bikes, and you’ve got the Obama landslide.”
“Good. Lesson two: First week in office, best thing you can do is infuriate your base. A real knee to the groin. Make them question why they ever donated a nickel or licked a stamp for you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“In 2001, Before Laura even got us unpacked, I went right out and made a deal with Ted Kennedy on education,” said W. “A lousy deal. A violation of the core principles of my base, but I did it and never looked back. Gave Billy Clinton a pass from prosecution when my people were howling for blood. Later, just to rub it in, I had Justice sign off on a wrist slap for Sandy Berger for stealing those documents from the National Archives.” W. wiggled his toes in delight. “You have to make people understand that nobody owns the president of the U.S. of A. There used to be this phrase politicians in Texas would say, ‘You got to dance with the one what brung ya,’ which basically means you got to pay off the people that ponied up to elect you. That’s fine for a congressman or senator — let’s be honest, the wheels of government are greased with other people’s money — but a president is a different beast altogether. You need to show them that.”“It sounds so . . . counterintuitive. I don’t know.”
“Next week, while you’re still trying to find your way around the place, call up the CEO of Exxon-Mobil and invite him over to watch a movie. Something with soldiers. A war movie where we’re actually the good guys. You may have to use Netflix, because there’s nothing like that at Blockbuster and I’m not loaning out my copy of Sands of Iwo Jima. Serve Mr. Big Oil a big bowl of buttered popcorn. Better yet, have one of your flunkies from Greenpeace or the trial-lawyers association there, too, and have them serve the popcorn. Teach that puppy to heel.” W. swigged down the last of the orange Nehi. “And the president of Exxon, he’s not a bad guy to know, if you get my drift.”
Obama nodded. “It would be nice to be my own man. To show them, show them just once.”
W. stared at the condensation on his Nehi. “You want to be your own man, the trick is to pick one thing and stick with it no matter what anybody says. With me, after 9/11, it was all about the war against the jihadis. You pick one thing and hold fast to it, you’re going to be hated worse than you can imagine.”
Obama dines with Will, Kristol, Brooks (Alex Koppelman, 1/14/09, Salon)
Even King David might have found Barack Obama's choice of dinner companions a bit too literal. (Psalm 23, "Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies," for those of you not up on your Biblical allusions.)Columnist George Will hosted the president-elect and at least two other prominent conservative pundits at his Maryland home Tuesday night. The pool reporter on the scene has confirmed that New York Times columnists David Brooks and Bill Kristol at the dinner, but was apparently unable to spot any other guests.
One big advantage for the UR is a loyal opposition and Republicans who want him to succeed, unlike post-Florida W.