www.mistergripes.com December 20, 2011

‘Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, But….’ President Obama has been called a ‘fascist,’ a ‘communist,’ the ‘vanguard of the femino-lesbian movement’ [Mark Savage], an ‘idiot,’ a ‘destroyer of this country,’ [that’s from a summer-house neighbor of mine], a ‘thug’, a ‘racist,’ an ‘anti-colonialist’ thinker [Newt said that], a ‘criminal,’ a ‘Kenyan’ [Newt and Trump share that one], Hitler, Stalin, and in what may be the meanest slur of them all, Mr. Obama was compared to that dunderhead-dunce-clown prince, Hugo Chavez, of Venezuela .
Mr. Obama, through it all, has kept his composure serene and his gun powder dry, further enraging his enemies, and, Mr. Gripes suggests, driving them nuts. More power to him. It’s so emblematic of the bile that now seeps through every facet of American culture and conversation. His enemies talk about resuscitating the fundamental — albeit perhaps mythical — American national character, which incorporates a spirit of good will, cooperation and generosity. Then, in their discourse, they speak exactly the opposite. Shameful.
By the way, you ought to get your facts straight, guys: Mr. Obama cannot be simultaneously Josef Stalin and Adolf Hitler. For 150 years, Communists and Fascists have detested each other. Hitler, the ultimate murderous fascist, in fact initiated an Eastern-Front war against Joseph Stalin, the ultimate murderous communist. Combined, they were responsible for 30 million deaths of their own citizens in World War II. I understand you hate Mr. Obama, but, please, you jabbos out there, study a little history.

Every day, as I peruse my morning newspaper [no, it’s not The Daily Worker, it’s the Wall Street Journal] I am flabbergasted at how detached from reality we Americans have become, or, perhaps more accurately, how numb we’ve become. Freddie Mac, since the onset of the financial meltdown in 2008, in the eyes of many critics, was the primary cause of the financial collapse – not the thievery and avarice of Wall Street, not the 40-1 loan-to-collateral leveraged deals, not ‘AAA’-rated mortgage securities which were actually worthless, not Alan Greenspan’s free-market, fool’s-gold, Ayn-Rand-infused gobbledygook. Nope, conservatives say, the meltdown was totally the result of the collusion between bribed elected officials, via Freddie political contributions, and senior management of Freddie Mac. Freddie Mac was the neutron bomb that almost destroyed the American economy: that has been the gist of the Republican argument.
So, guess what? Newt Gingrich, a recipient of over a million dollars [$1.8 million, actually] from Freddie Mac to lobby its programs among his former colleagues in Congress, is the new frontrunner in the Republican presidential race. Not just ahead, way ahead. Has there been any noisy pushback on Mr. Gingrich for his association with Freddie Mac? Eerily, there’s been a strange quietude regarding Mr. Gingrich’s money-haul. Again, I emphasize that Mr. Gingrich was being paid a boatload of money to actively promote and support a Tea Party archetypal enemy. Where’s the purity on issues that Tea Party adherents theoretically always insist on? Mr. Gingrich, in effect, got in bed with the devil.
Oh, pardon me, Mr. Gingrich asserts, I was not a lobbyist; I was merely advising Freddie Mac as an ‘historian.’ Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. An historian? Yeah, and I’ve been selected prima ballerina for the Bolshoi Ballet’s European Spring Tour. No one, including my daughter’s one-year-old dog, Greta, believes that historian fable for a moment. It’s a bold-faced lie. Yet, he’s the frontrunner today. One individual, just one time, should have the guts to walk up to the rotund and eternally smug Mr. Gingrich, and merely enunciate the obvious, “Newt, you’re a lying SOB.” It’s not going to happen; the Washington press corps won’t do it, scared stiff they’ll no longer be invited to those Georgetown parties, to munch on caviar-and-egg canapés and chat with towering thinkers like George Will. Right now Mr. Gingrich is ahead in state primary polls. In our great land of magisterial hypocrisy, this one takes the cake.

Edward Koch, a former mayor of New York back in the 1980’s, in a Democratic primary election this past September, backed, let’s call him for purposes of this item, Candidate ‘A’. He supported this individual for just one position he took: candidate ‘A’ opposed the Obama Middle-East policy. That’s it. Nothing else meant anything to Mr. Koch.
Trillion-dollar debts don’t bother Mr. Koch; an intractable 9% unemployment doesn’t faze Mr. Koch; a collapsing educational system doesn’t worry Mr. Koch; the palpable loss of American prestige and power means nothing to Mr. Koch. Nope. Only Obama’s position on Israel means a damn thing to the former mayor. Mr. Gripes can be exercised about many things going on in this country lately – that’s for sure. But the myopic stance by Mr. Koch just rankles me to no end.
Ed, take note, please: this country has bestowed on you an extraordinarily rich, productive life you couldn’t have imagined as a young man – it would have been too fanciful. You’ve had a run in this life that would not have been possible in any other country in the world. You might choose to refute that statement, but, in reality, it’s the truth. Mr. Gripes is far from a ‘Live-Free-or-Die’ nut-job patriot type, but I fervently believe Ed Koch’s primary allegiance and loyalty ought to be, should be, in fact, to America. American citizens should be loyal, first and foremost, to this country — not to Armenia, not to Greece, not to Chad, not to the Philippines, not to Uruguay, not to anywhere else: you reside in this country; you partake in its gifts, and have been a recipient of its munificence. I just don’t get it: we’re experiencing so many problems now in this country, but instead of focusing on solving those immensely difficult issues, Mr. Koch ignores his country, turning his back away.
Besides, Israel can take care of itself very well, thank you, as it has since 1948. That missile factory/military base in Iran which was recently bombed out and destroyed – perpetrator still ‘unknown’ – is ample proof.
If, indeed, Mr. Koch’s interests revolve solely around Israel, and none regarding the country of his birth, I’ll be delighted to proffer a suggestion: go bye-bye on an airplane to Israel and live out your final days there. I’m sure they’d love to have you.

Imagine this tableau: Late November, a Saturday afternoon, just prior to Thanksgiving. Sunny and clear, light wind, mid-50’s — college football stadium at the northern tip of Manhattan. From high up in the stands, spread out in front of the crowd is a gorgeous view of fall foliage and the river. I come to the game accompanied by a close friend up from Florida and another friend from the neighborhood, and meet up with former rugby teammates and college pals. Free beer and Italian-hero wedges [you know the kind: at least seven types of salami and cheeses on crusty bread] at an Ivy version of tailgate.
I turn to a friend early in the game, and announce, “This is the authentic American experience. This doesn’t happen in England, Ethiopia, or Japan. Only here.” And, for obscure reasons I’m sure, I’m very touched by that sentiment. I’ve felt this way before: very early on, as a child of 11 or 12, I was playing centerfield one very hot July afternoon, with my Labrador Teddy reclining and panting 20 feet from me on the grass. Fifty years later, I have a clear memory of crouching, waiting for the baseball to be pitched, and thinking ‘I’m an All-American boy; I couldn’t live anywhere else. I’m very lucky to be in this spot at this time.’ That’s the identical emotion I had sitting up in the stands last month.
I thank God I didn’t go to one of those big-time football schools, with their dirty recruiting scams, their million-dollar coaches defecating on academic standards , dictatorial, corrupt personages like Joe Paterno riding rough-shod over university trustees, boosters obsessed with winning at all costs, and the gigantic hypocrisy of athlete-scholarship. It’s a filthy, stinking business. That world is so far removed from the stadium at the tip of Manhattan.
The game itself is utterly insignificant: my alma mater has a record of 0-9, and its opponent possesses a desultory .500 record. There are no bowl invitations in the offing, just the last game of a lackluster season, and the final game ever for the seniors. The crowd is small but lively as the game proceeds. The two bands play their college fight songs to everyone’s delight. [This being New York, many alumni of the visiting team who live in the city come up on the subway and roar loudly and happily from the other side of the field.]
The game meanders along, and the alma mater is losing by two touchdowns late in the third quarter. And then, miraculously, the home team scores twice, ties up the game, and the battle goes into overtime. The players continue to play hard, caught up in the excitement and drama of it all. Eventually, the alma mater pushes through for a score, and wins the game. We all rise and cheer and cheer as a mob of players exalts in the middle of the field.
Ivy League football. Catch it!

Jim Israel / Mister Gripes
December 20, 2011
My apologies for the long absence. Next column will appear on or before January 7, 2012.