Presidential Prior Restraint

Well, it's hit the fan now. In response to a New York Times story, President Bush has admitted to eavesdropping on suspected Al Qaeda operatives and sympathizers without the proper court-ordered warrants. He has assured us, however, that his actions weren't unlawful, but rather well within the bounds of his presidential privilege and, in fact, part of his sworn duty to protect the country from terrorists.

But controversy is swirling over this latest peek into the Bush White House. Some commentators are even reminding us that "abuse of power" was one of the counts Nixon would have faced back in 1974 had Ford not pardoned him and saved us all the bother of impeachment proceedings. I'm not a lawyer, so I suppose I shouldn't even try to weigh such matters, but it does strike me that spying on people without due process is at least as bad, presidentially speaking, as lying about fooling around with flirty White House interns.

Still, what upsets me most about this whole matter is that Bush was so concerned about keeping it secret he called the publisher and editor of the New York Times to the Oval Office to "ask" them not to tell anyone, as they finally did last week after an entire year. It's time to draw a line. Already, we've heard tales of Bushites planting upbeat stories in the Iraqi press. We know they've paid American journalists to write nice stories about them in U.S. papers and even planted pseudo-journalists in White House press conferences to be sure someone asked the "right" questions. But when a president sits down with the top executives of the nation's No. 1 newspaper and makes it very clear what he does or does not want to see in print, that's what real journalists call prior restraint.

Simply defined, prior restraint is suppression of the truth. It's the status quo in societies ruled by dictators, who must control the media in order to control the citizenry. But it is anethema in a democratic society, governed ultimately by an informed electorate. That's because prior restraint distorts our view of reality. If left uncovered, it will even distort the record of history, leading to untold ramifications as time goes on. In short, prior restraint of the media is a violation of the worst degree. And when it comes directly from the president's office, how else can we interpret it other than as an executive end run around the First Amendment to the Constitution. Which may do us all good to revisit: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances."

So Pointless

It was another dog show weekend. Not as if I didn't have anything else to do but get up at 5 a.m. Saturday morning to bathe and dry a Newf, then drive to Long Beach and back two days in a row. But I've made a commitment now to pursue Charter's championship, and every show, win or lose, is good practice for the boy. Megan, his junior handler, did a superb job of handling and grooming, and the classes were small, so you'd think with so little competition, my Goliath son would've brought home the points. But alas, we could only manage a couple red ribbons and one reserve, which is to say, the consolation prize of dog shows. I honestly don't get it. No one is more critical than I about my own dogs' chances in the ring, and I say Charter should've won both days. But then I'm not the judge. It's just that for all the effort and expense, to come home essentially empty-handed just seems so, well, pointless.

Christmas is Coming; the Goose Is in the Fridge

Imagine my surprise yesterday morning to open the refrigerator door and find a big goose sitting among the milk and mustards. Well, not a live goose of course. A bagged, frozen goose, thawing in advance of Christmas dinner. Bob is obviously getting creative with the menu this year. But then I did the same with the tree, went out and bought new ornaments and roll after roll of velvet ribbon. It's amazing what you can find at K-Mart! You should see the results, a vision in burgundy and gold. Then there's the evergreen garland all around the big French doors in the living room, the pointsettias on the front porch, the lighted wreath hung high outside, the scented candles burning inside.

Today I stop by the post office for the last package drop, and tonight we wrap all the gifts the UPS man has been leaving at our doorstep. Tomorrow afternoon we'll be welcoming EK and Jeffrey and their pups. Lauren and Lilo, Margaret, Terri and John all arrive on Friday. The canyon is beautiful this time of year, especially in the long, low afternoon light. And at night it's so clear you can see Tijuana sparkling. We have never experienced this nuance of life in the backcountry. We first arrived in April, and the fire came only seven months later, in late October. So now, two years later, it is our first winter here, our first Christmas at Terra Nova. And we plan to savor every moment.

All We Are Saying ....

Twenty-five years ago today. He was young and seemingly invincible. One of the Beatles, for crying out loud. But he died anyway. And for no good reason. Shot down at point blank range in front of the New York apartment he shared with his wife, Yoko Ono, and their son.

More than 10 years later, when our Japanese friend Tomoko came to visit, we took her to New York City, and the one place she most wanted to see was the Dakota, site of John Lennon's murder. We had to go there, she said, and stand out front and sing "Imagine." It was a cold, cold day, but we went, we stood, we sang. Across the street, in the section of Central Park known as Strawberry Fields, we found the starburst stone embedded in the earth as a memorial to John, engraved with the one word: "Imagine."

"Imagine all the people, living life in peace." For my parents' generation, the concept of Americans and Japanese, touring New York as friends, would have existed only in the realm of imagination. So there is still hope. But mostly, even after 25 years, we find peace not in the world around us, but only in our imagination. And sometimes, if we are open to it, in our hearts.

Chamberpot of Horrors

"It matters how you finish." It's a saying Bob and I came up with while watching numerous individuals self-destruct after achieving great success. O. J. Simpson, for instance. Michael Jackson. Various and sundry CEOs, government leaders, members of the clergy. We look at them, at the mess they've made of their once enviable lives, the hurt and embarrassment they've inflicted on their loved ones, and we shake our heads at the needlessness of it all. They had everything going for them, and they threw it all away. Why? Now they'll be remembered not for their accomplishments, but for their lapses in judgment and conduct. It's not a new phenomenon by any means. Shakespeare made note of it in "Julius Caesar." "The evil that men do lives after them," he wrote. "The good is oft interred with their bones."

Our way of putting it isn't quite as literary, but it works for us, both as a commentary on the news and as a solemn reminder. It's human nature, after all, to make mistakes. So easy to rationalize a detour from the straight and narrow. We've all stood at the crossroads more than once. San Diego in particular has turned into a showcase for fallen heroes of late. Over the last year or so, we've discovered our elected and appointed officials have driven the city to the brink of bankruptcy. We've seen our mayor and two councilmen ousted in disgrace. It's gotten so bad the slogan "America's Finest City" has been deleted from the municipal Web site.

But last week we witnessed a public flogging that made all that's come before seem mundane. San Diegan Randy "Duke" Cunningham, a Vietnam era flying ace, Top Gun instructor and 15-year veteran of Congress, fessed up to taking $2.4 million in bribes from defense contractors in return for lucrative government contracts. It was a sorry spectacle to see "The Duke," still known for his fly-boy arrogance and bluster, standing before national news cameras, sobbing his apologies. At age 63, the man who claimed he was once the brash young fighter pilot Tom Cruise portrayed in "Top Gun," now faces up to 10 years in prison. So egregious, so reckless was his corruption that his attorney admitted he'd recommended a plea bargain because his client simply "had no defense."

The details of Cunningham's Humpty Dumpty fall from Capitol Hill are the stuff Leno and Lettermen live for. His take included a house in ultra-chic Rancho Santa Fe, free use of "The Duke-Stir," a yacht moored on the Potomac, a Rolls Royce (albeit a used one), a college graduation party for his daughter and various antiques, including a couple of 200-year-old French commodes. Not surprisingly, these last items have drawn the most attention in the national media, with uncouth AM radio jocks snickering about the Duke's penchant for antique "crappers" and even Newsweek offering the synonym "chamberpot." Isn't anyone going to point out that in design parlance, a commode is not a toilet, but a small chest of drawers?

But it does seem odd that the Dukester, known as a rowdy, fight-picking, cigar-chomping, skeet-shooting son of a gun, would care about antique French commodes of any sort. It makes me wonder what his wife role is in all of this. Maybe I'm just a budget control freak, but if Bob came home driving a Rolls Royce, used or not, pulled a French antique or two out of the trunk and suggested we start looking for property in Rancho Santa Fe, I'd start asking questions. It should be interesting to see how well Nancy Cunningham dodges the fallout from her husband's implosion. Hard to believe this will play well at the country club.

But enough time wasted on idle speculation. I have a deadline to meet, cappuccinos to steam and a book to write. Miles to go, as Frost put it, before I sleep. And I really want to finish well.

Update March 3, 2006: Today, admitting through tears that he'd "torn his life to shreds," Randy Duke Cunningham heard a judge sentence him to 100 months--that's 8 years, 4 months--in prison and then remand him into custody. The denouement made front-page headlines across the country. Hard to imagine being the Dukester tonight.

How Goes the War?

I was happy to hear yesterday, straight from President Bush himself in a stirring speech presented to a captive audience of midshipmen at the Naval Academy, that the war in Iraq is going really well now, that in fact victory is within our grasp and we will settle for nothing less. The president even unveiled an official document titled "A National Strategy for Victory in Iraq."

All I can figure is that I must've been confused by the liberal media's biased reports from the front, because my own assessment of the situation so far, four years into things, had been far less optimistic. O.K. I'll admit it. All along I'd been thinking of Iraq as one big, fat mess. And as for a national strategy, I didn't even know we had one.

Nobody likes being wrong, but when it comes to victory in Iraq I don't mind being set straight. I imagine the president's report was also very comforting to the friends and families of those 2,000-plus servicemen and women who have died thus far in the Global War on Terrorism, the tens of thousands injured in the conflict, and maybe even in some small way any remaining survivors of the countless Iraqis who have perished in our pursuit of their freedom.