Texas Politics: Best Theater In Town

After listening to almost 10 hours of debate centered on the highly dubious merits of the Texas legislature's superstupid so-called 'abortion' bill (HB2), all exchanges, pro and con, boiled down to a vote passing the bill. Opponents, all Democrats, just didn't have the numbers, and moderate Republicans, cowed by the Tea Party right-wing crazies among them, chickened out.

But that was just the beginning. What happened in the 30 minutes after the votes were tallied and was more uplifting than most of the performances on the House floor. Mind you, here were several magical moments throughout the day.  

Rep. Senfronia Thompson, the legislature's no-nonsense grand dame, delivered a graphic description of what will happen to Texas women as a result of this draconian bill (that will severely limit access to a range of medical services in addition to abortion). With a coat hanger in one hand and a scary-long knitting needle in the other, she made clear what happens in back-alley abortions -- and insisted that these would be the likely implements used for terminating an unwanted pregnancy due to rape or incest (the bill makes no provision for allowing termination of a pregnancy after 20 weeks). She asked that an amendment to the bill be considered. It would make an exception for rape and/or incest.

It was voted down.

In a powerful proposal delivered in old-school oratorical style,  Rep. Sylvester Turner  promised in to vote for the bill if a provision were added to fund post-natal and medical care for mother and child.

 His amendment was voted down.

Rep. Dawnna Dukes gently and somberly proposed an amendment that would fund education for children born of unwanted pregnancies. Her amendment was also voted down-- but not before some neophyte whippersnapper had the temerity to challenge Dukes' motivation for advancing the amendment in the first place. What followed was a scene straight from a TV drama series. Dukes fixed a steely gaze on the offending legislator and issued a smackdown worthy  of  "The West Wing." Her voice dropped half of an octave. When she finished dusting the floor with a scathing indictment of his character for his seeming to challenge hers, she stepped back from the microphone and over to his desk where she completed her reprimand. A brace of empty suits surrounded the two,  but none -- I suspect wisely -- interfered.

Meanwhile, House Speaker Joe Strauss fluctuated between looking frustrated, dismayed and bewildered, bless his heart.

Interspersed with this day-long drama were occasional rejoinders from the bill's ostensible sponsor: Rep. Jodie Laubenberg. She called to mind one of Molly Ivins' more notorious quotes. In characterizing a Texas politico, Molly once wrote, "If  his IQ slipped any lower, you'd have to water him twice a day."  Enter Rep. Laubenberg, bless her heart too. I can't begin to imagine how or why she became the bill's front-and-center spokestwit. Barely able to articulate a compound sentence, she couldn't defend "her" bill with anything vaguely resembling informed authority. (This is the person who famously believed a rape kit was the appropriate methodology for eliminating the probability of pregnancy; she had no idea its sole purpose was to acquire a perp's  DNA.)

Bet whoever put her up to it won't make that mistake again.

OK. So now you have a snapshot of the activity before the miserable vote took place.  What happened after the session ended is the wonderful part of the day and what made the end result tolerable. Hundreds of men and women of all shapes, ages, sizes, ethnicities and manner of dress descended on the second floor outside the House chamber, shouts of "Shame On You!" erupted among Texans who lined stairwells and crowded the gallery just outside the House doors. Stone-faced state troopers promptly cordoned off access.  The  mass of people forced some of the bill's supporters to skitter down side stairs like so many fleeing rodents.

And then...and then...AND THEN: some of the true heroes of the day began to emerge. Angry jeers became cheers: "THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU" we yelled. Somewhere a drum and a tambourine appeared, its players keeping rhythm. There they were: representatives Sephronia Thompson, Rodney Allen, Jessica Ferrar, Mary Gonzales, Elliott Naishtat, Helen Giddings,  Garnet Coleman, Jose Menendez. Despite the best efforts of   remarkably calm fire marshals, supporters crowded them, reaching past a line of troopers who tried to cordon off a pathway from the house floor to the rotunda. The sea of phone cameras at the end of upstretched arms was almost sculptural. Others, including Dukes, were sequestered in a press conference.

And all of a sudden, it was over. The second session of the 83rd convocation of the Texas State Legislature had run its course. The crowd dispersed. The troopers scattered. The fire marshall accepted a Gerber daisy.

Now we wait to see if this enthusiasm can translate into getting out the vote.

In all, it was a bad news/good news day.

HB2, which will be challenged six ways from Sunday, was, for the time being, en route to becoming law. As for the  good news, the monomaniacal governor who insisted that the million-dollar special session be convened for the sole purpose of passing this chickenshit bill, announced that he will not run for governor again.

My fervent hope is that he takes his limited abilities onto the presidential campaign trail in

2016, since Michele Bachmann isn't likely to run. Every campaign needs a court jester along the way.


Tickets to this theater production,  like the one just ended, are free.

Off We Go, Into the Wild Blue Yonder...

I'm. notorious for not being able to recognize famous people -- oh I could recognize the current or any of the recent past presidents, or maybe a celebrity or two should they be Bono in those dark blue glasses, Whoopi in her dreads or Charles Osgood in his signature bow tie. But for the most part, nada.

Apropos of that deficiency, I can't remember when I've wished so much that Molly was around to hear a story of mine (instead of it usually being the other way 'round) as I did that day in April when I boarded my flight from Austin to Newark. Because I always get an aisle seat, I usually wait until the last minute to board, giving time for seatmates to settle in and avoiding all that nonsense of waiting while type A types toggle and shove their beleaguered suitcases into overheard compartments. This time my delayed boarding paid off.  Big time.  Here's what happened:

As I snail-walked behind the still lined-up passengers, I met the eyes of a familiar oval-round face with snow white hair and a receding hair line. But from familiar how, from where? It made me crazier and crazier as I got nearer and nearer, unable to assign name to visage.

And then it hit me. "Excuse me," I said with a smile, "but who was the first person to tell you you look exactly like John Cornyn?" He smiled back and said, "My mother."

Paygodammdirt.

"Good seeing, you senator," I said as I moved on. Once in my 26D seat, seat belt fastened, electronic devices off, seat in upright and tray in stowed and locked in position, I whipped out my trusty little notebook. Even though long retired from the newsroom, I still carry one with me. Never know when you're gonna encounter a senator with whom you have absolutely nothing in common on a three-hour flight. Gotta make the best possible use of the time without risking mid-air arrest which requires having the patience to wait until you're at a cruising altitude of 32,000 feet. Notes. Must have notes.

With notes scribbled and committed to memory, down the aisle I went. It was a reasonable safe gambit: Cornyn had an aisle bulkhead  seat, immediately behind first class, and had had the whole row to himself.  Immediately across from the good senator was an Amazonian type dressed way too conspicuously inconspicuously not to have been either an air marshal ("marshallette"?) or a badly disguised member of the security team.  She too had the entire row. Immediately behind her sat a very muscular young man with almost no neck who was surely there on the senator's protective behalf. He watched me suspiciously, and with fairly good reason.

No matter. I was not there to do harm or make a fuss -- only to tell my senator three things.  As I approached, Senator Cornyn apparently sensed my presence because he looked up.

Mission accomplished: eye contact.

Pardon me senator," I said. "I apologize for disturbing you, but this is as close as I'll ever get to you in real life, and since we wouldn't agree on anything other than the fact that we're on the same plane headed for the same destination, I just wanted to say three things to you."

A thinly veiled look if displeasure came over him as he replied, "Well, I'm trying to take a nap here."
I answered with the hang-dog look familiar to any beagle owner: "I know, and I do apologize,," I said, "but since I'm a constituent and I help pay your salary I only need two minutes of your time to say one, I think Guantanamo should be closed immediately; two, torture is wrong now, always has been, always will be; and three, automatic weapons belong only in the hands of police officers and military personnel. -- Oh and one more thing: I think Ted Cruz is an asshole, and you shouldn't lower yourself to his level."
Let me pause here long enough to say that even when he is distorting facts to the breaking point, John Cornyn has always comported himself in a very Southern Gentlemanly kind of way. So I give him props for being soft-spoken and polite even as he tap dances on what passes for reality in most quarters. Plus, he didn't summon his bodyguard to march me back to my seat.

The senator looked momentarily startled, doubtless taken aback by my genteel. ladylike language, and asked, "What did you say?" As I began to repeat my three-points, " he said, "No, the last part." And I repeated it, leaning in a little closer to his left ear. "I think Ted Cruz is an asshole, and you shouldn't lower yourself to his level."

I swear I thought he smiled as he said "I have no comment." To which I replied,"Nor should you, sir and thank you for your time," and hightailed it back to 26D.

I'd like to think Molly would have been pleased.

I for sure know I was pleased not to have uniformed personnel waiting when I emerged from the walkway into Newark International. In heading toward baggage claim I only looked back once. No one was tailing me. The senator, the bodyguard and the Amazon were long gone.

Behold the Worldwide Feeding Frenzy

In an extraordinary convergence of awful international events a lot of us are looking on somewhere between horror and bewilderment as the Catholic church cannibalizes itself; old Republicans chew on their younger, hipper conservative cohort even as it tries to save the geezers from themselves; and our good Governor Goodhair dines out on obfuscation and half-truths in an effort to lure Californians from one state in budgetary distress to another -- all the while turning his back on the hundreds of thousands of poor women and children who will be without health care due to his proud rejection of billions in federal aid designed to help them.

It's enough to cause indigestion in anyone with a conscience.

Yet here we are once again, in front row seats at the theater of nutty national governance as it threatens to throw the country into financial chaos unless the petulant adolescents who pass for a congressional delegation can somehow get their act together and elevate country above petty squabbles.

We haven't seen much of the bipartisanship our poor, delusional president still seems to think is possible, so we must commend the Neanderthals who took office with the sole goal of stymieing President Obama at every turn for making good on their sick promise. I have never wished so fervently for Molly's voice as I have in recent weeks.  I can see her now, hunkered down at her computer, reassembling carefully researched data and committing to paper -- well, computer screen -- an evisceration of the men and women who profess such grand love of country, even as they invest inordinate energy in dismantling it.
 
I can see sweat running down the side of her face as she calls to account the likes of Michelle Bachmann, the stunningly vapid Minnesota  Tea (Party) brain who has denied global warming; denounced non-existent "death panels" as part of the president's health care program; accused a White House staffer of being a Muslim Brotherhood sympathizer; and impugned the character of Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius. Oh wait -- Bachmann also famously suggested in a campaign event that the 2011 earthquake and hurricane that struck the Eastern seaboard were messages from God -- adding, for good measure, one of the year's weirdest nonsequiturs: "Listen to the American people because...(t)hey know government is on a morbid obesity diet and we've got to rein in the spending."

As an ardent feminist, it would not elude Mol's sense of irony that Bachman sits on the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence.

Intelligence?

Really?

Sweet Jesus.

Yes, here we are, on the eve of an ill-conceived congressional plan that would cut funding for pre-school education programs and eliminate thousands of jobs in the public and private sector, all because a die-hard, intellectually impotent bunch of flag-pin-wearing pinheads who love their country so very much that they're prepared to drive it into the ground.

Talk about stirring it up...

Still Stirring It Up: Election? What Election??

Still Stirring It Up: Election? What Election??: The thing about the 24-hour news cycle, the thing I like least about it, anyway -- is the fact that a momentous event -- like, oh, say, ...

Election? What Election??

The thing about the 24-hour news cycle, the thing I like least about it, anyway -- is the fact that a momentous event -- like, oh, say, the re-election of a president is here for a moment, then gone the next. Then it's on to the next big thing like a certain political consultant who is probably still licking his wounds after being unable to produce one single successful candidate for all the millions he garnered from  donors.  Oh, and made for himself. Really wouldn't want to be in his shoes right now.

And no, we're not going anywhere near that 4-star general's triangular tribulations. No one could do that better than Jon Stewart did on a recent "Daily Show." But see what I mean?  Carl Rove was  stale news 24 hours after his stupendously unsuccessful promotion of right wing-nut hopefuls.  By the time I finish this something will probably have supplanted Israel's bombing in Gaza. Um, or not.

I was still unpacking from my two months  away from home when I learned of two deaths that shook me mightily: One, a dear and wonderful friend in New Orleans -- she was going for her first chemo treatment when I talked to her husband shortly before I left for one trip, and died before I returned 30 days later. The other was the death of Isaiah Sheffer, for many years the host of "Selected Shorts" at New York's Symphony Space.  He died just as I returned from the second trip. 

I never met  Sheffer in person, but I felt like I had. Sunday after Sunday I sat in my comfy  living room chair and waited for the tinkly music that presaged the start of "Selected Shorts," and wait for his gentle voice to welcome me and  introduce the evening's works.  Actors read short stories penned by  well- and lesser-known writers, and the program was always engaging.

I did, however, know  Diana Pinckley.  She and her husband John Pope graciously read and critiqued the Molly book manuscript before I submitted it. Diana came up with a title for the book I loved, but the publisher didn't, so you can pretty much guess who won that argument. (Fortunately another dear and wonderful  friend produced a title  everybody liked and that was that). Anyway, Diana took the rejection much more graciously that I did.  She arranged for me to have a book reading and signing at the Farmers Market and at Octavia Books, a charming neighborhood independent store.

While Diana's death left me deeply saddened, Sheffer's death affected me too.  She was only 60, two years younger than Molly was when she died. Sheffer, who died of complications from a stroke, was 76. When you are in you 70s, as I am, these confrontations with immortality  recall Longfellow's  reminder that art is long and time is fleeting. The time we have on this beleaguered planet is so short that it is increasingly a waste of time to fret over what we can't do or change;  to get angry with the moron who cuts us off in traffic;  the dunderhead who can't bother to stop for the driver trying to exit a parking lot at rush hour; the arrogant shopper who directs his/her filled-to-the-brim  grocery cart to the 'express'  checkout lane; the loud-mouthed idiot whose cell phone is grafted to his/her ear everywhere , all the time. 

These and other social transgressions call for a deep breath or two or three because there are other things to do. Other mountains to climb. Other places to see. Other friends to visit. Art is long and time is fleeting, so stir things up when and where possible, then move on.