The Conservative Soldier

Sen. John McCain’s trusted adviser and campaign co-chairman Phil Gramm was absolutely right when he dismissed our nation’s economic malaise as largely “mental”. There are always going to be people struggling, but in its frenzy to elevate the presidential aspirations of Sen. Barrack Hussein Obama, America’s shameless mainstream media have worked overtime to convince average citizens that we are experiencing an economic freefall.

As Monday’s Exhibit A, I submit Page 38 in the Chicago Sun-Times and a headline above a dispatch by celebrity gossip columnist Bill Zwecker. The headline reads, “Recession? … what recession?”

Zwecker’s column detailed elaborate summer bashes hosted last weekend in the Wisconsin vacation estates of a pair of Chicago’s wealthiest families, the J.B. Pritzkers and the Richard Driehauses. Rod Stewart was flown in to perform at the Pritzker soire.

Guys like Zwecker love to shake a bony finger at these undertaxed rich people, as it is obvious that they should not be partying during an era in American history when (gasp!) some other folks are not equally rich. Not fair. They should give all their excess money to Obama (although J.B. Pritzker was once an avid fund-raiser for Hillary Clinton). Then they should park in front of CNBC and join the national hand-wringing, just after driving their evil, gas guzzling Escalades and Yukons and Hummers into Wisconsin’s Lake Geneva.

This is a typical example of what has been going on for months. The U.S. economy is NOT IN A RECESSION yet headlines like the Sun-Times’ are popping up all over.

Americans would rather fixate on Obama running around the globe apologizing for the spread of democracy than take a few minutes to notice rapidly declining oil prices and a slew of American companies that have reported excellent profit news in recent weeks, blowing way past analysts’ estimates.

And while I think financially secure people should be able to throw a party whenever they desire, I do hope J.B. Pritzker’s sister, Penny, an Obama campaign finance insider, is thinking ahead to the Obama celebration most likely in planning stages for the evening of Nov. 4, 2008.

When Obama loses that night, Election Night 2008, what’s going to happen to all of that chilled jumbo shrimp and Cristal Champagne?

We hear a lot about Washington gridlock. Conventional wisdom holds that Washington is broken, that there has not been so much decay found in Washington since General George opened his mouth and shocked his dentist.

But I am pleased to report that I’ve come back from Washington with good news:

Sorry to disappoint the economic doomsdayers, but Americans are going on vacations, seeing sights and spending money. And, people from across this nation and around the world remain awe struck by the symbolic grandeur of Washington, D.C., and its famous monuments, even though, we are reminded constantly, the United States is increasingly “unpopular”.

Presidential pretender Barack Hussein Obama and power-crazed Democrat leaders desperately try to convince Americans that we are a fragile, despised nation, a shrinking world power, and that we have no hope for the future, at least not without them in charge.

But this sense of futility simply was not apparent as we visited the Washington area last week. The Metro transit system was jammed with tourists. Lines were well out the door in front of attractions such as the National Archives. Lunchtime at Union Station’s mall and food courts was total chaos. Out-of-towners queued up everywhere to devour midday meals. The crowds inside the U.S. Capitol were positively suffocating.

At the Lincoln Memorial, amid sweltering afternoon temperatures, visitors descended from Indianapolis and India, Joplin and Japan, Fresno and France, honoring Abe and perching themselves upon those massive steps to better take in The Mall and the distant Washington Monument.

We need a lot of things in this country. We need more energy independence. We need tighter borders. We need a rebound in the housing markets. Despite our having become rather needy, I was buoyed by my D.C. visit because I came away with a sense that we are certainly not needy when it comes to optimism.

Optimism remains the No. 1 intangible of a thriving democracy, and it is our leading export to be sure. I didn’t hear complaints in Washington. I heard fathers reading from The Constitution — the original version, beneath the glass — to their sons. I heard marveling about the courage of George Washington as we toured his lovely Mt. Vernon above the Potomac River. I heard chuckling over the audacity of Thomas Jefferson, paying off an artist to make him taller than other founding fathers in a portrait that hangs in the Capitol Rotunda.

And, as we stood outside the Oval Office in the west wing of the White House last Sunday, I heard the sound of awed silence, shattered only by the beating of my heart. The Oval Office does not need a President standing in it to blow you away. It is not a room. It is the epicenter of America. It is optimism’s Ground Zero. It was far more emotional to see in person it than I’d anticipated.

At a press conference last week, President Bush reiterated his optimism for the future in the face of tough questions about gasoline and food prices. His upbeat view is born out of knowing how Americans buck up when things get tough.

“The market works,” Bush said. “People can figure out whether they can drive more or less. They can balance their own checkbooks. The American people are plenty capable, plenty smart people.”

Bush has adorned the Oval Office with portraits of plenty capable figures Washington and Lincoln, among others, and a western oil painting, entitled, “A Charge to Keep I Have”, a constant reminder of his job description. There are busts of Eisenhower, Lincoln and Winston Churchill. And, on the center table, sits a bowl bursting with sherbet-hued roses, a special rose breed named after the First Lady, Laura Bush.

The Oval Office stirs the senses, and the mind’s eye. You can clearly see LBJ slumped at his desk, the weight of Vietnam crushing his spirit. You can see Gerald Ford, leaning back contemplatively in his chair, his pipe smoldering. You can see JFK looking his brother Bobby in the eye, calculating the threat of Soviet weapons in Cuba. You can see Ronald Reagan scribbling a note, a jar of jelly beans at the ready.

It is difficult to comprehend what it must feel like for a President to walk in on Day 1 of his new job, and more incomprehensible how it feels to walk out on that final, chilly January morning. The Oval Office has a sobering effect. It is a place that demands courage, love of country, and the unwavering belief in the march of freedom and the sowing of freedom’s seeds, attributes that come naturally to Sen. John McCain. It is not a place for damning America, for belittling the sanctity of democracy, for appeasing Islamic Jihadists, for self-absorbed rhetoric.

The abundant optimism that washes over (most of) us every day in America, and that I saw on the faces of people who flocked to the Nation’s Capital last week, originates at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The Oval Office is its wellspring.

As I turned to go, I wondered if Barack Obama has ever, even once, thought about that.

United Airlines announced this week it is cutting 7,000 jobs by the end of next year.

I hope the 7,000 include some of the lying, arrogant, incompetent and utterly useless employees who transformed our recent routine Washington-to-Chicago trip into an all too typical commercial aviation nightmare.

I know, I know. They’re here for our safety. For example, I am sure they know exactly what to do to protect us from say, overindulging on peanuts or soda pop. They keep us safe from that nasty stuff by making only one pass down the economy aisle with “snacks” and beverages. Up front, they present warm nuts but still make you beg for that beverage refill.

But what do they really know about protecting us from, say, mental breakdowns and gate rage and anxiety attacks? Based on my recent experience at Washington Dulles, I am certain these union loyalists know absolutely nothing.

The scenario I am about to describe happens repeatedly, every day of the year at airports from coast to coast. But, as with starvation in Africa or human rights abuses in China, the conversation and the quest for permanent solutions must persist until progress is achieved. We must not stop having a national dialog among weary travelers about the airlines’ gross incompetence simply because it addresses the same old same old. We have to keep talking about it, we have to step up the criticism, we have to demand these gnats on the front lines of a dying industry be swatted from time to time.

The flight was United’s 461, Boeing 767-300 service from Dulles to O’Hare at 6:45 in the evening. It began quite well. My wife, daughter and I successfully upgraded from Economy Plus to United Business. (The aircraft has a three-cabin configuration of First, Business and Economy, as it is principally intended for international service). This particular 767 recently was updated to United’s newest International First and Business seating. The Business seats are narrower than ever, but are designed to become flat for sleeping, and provide each customer a private pod in which to rest, or watch moves or play video games on what appeared to be 19-inch screens.

Off we went toward the end of the taxiway, an active runway close at hand. Around us, fellow Business upgradees were positively giddy about all the new buttons to press and various seat-comfort positions they were about to road test.

Before long, as I listened to air traffic control, I heard our cockpit crew request a delay for a “maintenance issue”. Huge red flag. Of course, if we’d been lucky, they would have been referring to nothing more serious than an inoperative coffeemaker. No such luck. Thus began another chapter in my deteriorating 25-year relationship with United Airlines.

Back to the gate we would go, owed to some problem with a leading wing edge component that aids aircraft control in flight. The captain’s tone was not particularly dire, so there seemed to be optimism in the air that a mechanic would swoop in and save the day with a piece or two of duct tape.

Never happened. (A team of mechanics was unable to fix the problem on the 767, which leads one to wonder how the aircraft made it to Dulles in the first place. Or … was the “mechanical issue” simply a convenient cancellation tactic?)

As we sat, oblivious, with alternate flight options slowly dissolving, the cockpit crew ate a quick dinner, probably chit-chatting about pension woes and salary concessions. Ultimately we were sent off the aircraft and told to report several gates away to another, waiting aircraft. Sounded like a good deal.

Bad deal. This was a Boeing 757, a single isle aircraft. The first officer jumped on the PA and assured us there was room for everybody, but he never mentioned the little problem dawning on us more seasoned travelers. A different plane meant that all of our boarding passes were now irrelevant. I cringed thinking about how long it would take to re-issue them to 150+, grumpy passengers.

Turns out only a few boarding passes were re-issued (including mine). In the interim, a gate agent with a heavy Jamaican accent made a few incoherent announcements, begging patience and providing absolutely no sense of what the plan was. Then along came another customer service guy who also looked like a security type (to combat gate rage, presumably). His bit of exciting news was that the flight crew was about to become “illegal”, meaning they were nearing the maximum number of hours they can work in a day. The poor babies do need their rest. You can’t be obnoxious and indifferent without proper sleep, after all. You can’t not find an extra pillow without a restful interlude now and then.

The search was on for another flight crew, we were told. No one believed that for a second, of course.

As the Jamaican handed me my re-issued boarding passes for the “new” UA 461, my cell phone buzzed. It was an automated message from United. UA 461 was cancelled.

I advised the Jamaican. His phone rang just then. Confirming what I knew before he did.

He advised the masses to return to the main Dulles terminal and to visit “Q9″. He meant queue nine. But, alas, in his native tongue, queue means “line”. As in, get in line and await your fate.

We bee-lined to the nearest Red Carpet Club, where we were re-booked on a flight the next day at 10 am, handed complimentary toiletry kits and wished a most pleasant good night.

A night that began with the promise of a lie-flat bed ended in a taxi cab to my parents’ home for a quick nap and a shower. And we were considered the lucky ones.