The Conservative Soldier

Writing from Kauai.

Like many Americans, I have been in news blackout mode since just before Christmas, with few exceptions. Less TV. Less web surfing. Virtually no newspapers. While enjoying the tranquility of the Hawaiian isle of Kauai, I received a news alert on my Blackberry on Christmas Day that a Nobel laureate and Eartha Kitt both had died. I am always relieved these days when the news alert is about the passing of some icon, rather than the one that begins, “Dow plunges …”

I can only assume the seductive Kitt made the more tangible contributions during her time on earth. The Nobel Prize and its distinguished “laureates” (such as Al Gore) largely are irrelevant.

If the holiday season is, as the lyricist insisted so many years ago, the “most wonderful time of the year”, it is probably because we can escape the 24/7 news cycles for a week or maybe two. If the mainstream media is trying to destroy our collective sanity, or turn us into a nation of manic-depressives, I fear it is succeeding.

As such, I have been deliberate in trying not to think about, or read news about, Barack Hussein Obama. I even waited until Day 8 of my holiday to don a mostly tongue-in-cheek “Obama/Osama” tee shirt. (Of course, on my morning walk, I immediately encountered some lumpy, pale skinned East Coast lib wearing a Chez Guevara-style Obama-is-God tee. He glared at me as if my shirt said, “Kill Kittens”).

My liberal antagonists howled with laughter upon learning that I was heading to the state of Hawaii for the Christmas holidays after news broke that the Obamas, and a posse of hangers-on to rival the Sinatra Rat Pack, also planned to luxuriate here (on the island of Oahu, thank God).

It is maddening. I have to live in Chicago and endure the hyperventilating of the local, Obama-crazed media — and fellow members who have come from out of town to join them — that has been unrelenting since the tragic events of November 4. And, when I think I am going to finally get away from it, that man of the people Obama boards a chartered United 767 on Dec. 20 that takes off from O’Hare Airport bound for Honolulu precisely 30 minutes before my family and I take off on United’s legendary Flight #1, a regularly scheduled nonstop to Honolulu from O’Hare.

Memo to Al Gore: How many carbon credits did the Obama family use up with that flying symbol of change known as Boeing’s fuel guzzling 767?

The flight attendants on UA #1 were all abuzz about the Obama charter, of course. As they largely ignored me and my wife and daughter, though we occupied their so-called First Class seating, I could only imagine the orgy of Obama worship going on a couple of hundred miles ahead of us, aboard Messiah One.

In flight, I realized why the ascendancy of Obama torments me day and night. It is not only about the fact that he is among the least scrutinized, least tested and most unqualified men ever elected President of the United States. Or that he is radically liberal, an enemy of patriotism, a man who has derided our military men and women. Or that he was a member of a church in which the pulpit was a cauldron of racial antagonism. Or that we have no idea if he is actually a naturally born U.S. citizen. Or that he is unearthing all of the Clinton era weasels to carry out his orders as President (or, perhaps, to tell him what the orders should be). What bothers me, to be brutally honest, is simply this: he is the luckiest man alive.

Why him? Obama is 47. I am 47. He was married on October 3 (1992). My wife and I were married on October 3 (1987). He smoked cigarettes. So did I.  (I was smart enough to quit at age 35; Obama apparently falls off the wagon from time to time, but no one seems outraged. Should we not demand a modicum of discipline from the Commander in Chief?).

The parallels end there, thankfully. As I have grown older, my love for America has become deeper and less compromised. My belief in the greatness of America, in its rightful place as the world’s only legitimate superpower, has become stronger. My tolerance for invasive government and its coddling of the weakest among us has expired. Meanwhile, Obama has grown ever more cynical about America.

For the first time in my life (to borrow a Michelle Obama transition) I am of the same generation of a major political figure, a “world leader”, and it troubles me that he has to be some clown from Chicago who has gamed political, academic and religious institutions all of his life without shame or restraint. And I feel very alone, suddenly, because the circle of people I thought were my friends is disproportionally pro-Obama. People I thought of as solid, educated, American values folks are blindly awash with optimism that Obama and his crowd are going to “restore America” and create an all-inclusive Camelot.

The problem is that Obama is not a “restorer”. He’s a “reformer”. His notion of reform is to dismantle the United States down to its very foundation, taking the Constitution down with it. His dream is to preside over a socialist, economically stagnant nation that shrinks into the shadows in the face of real enemies, and, for now, many seemingly intelligent people are ready to go along with that mission. Bartender, another round of Drool-Aid.

“Has there ever been,” to quote the gifted columnist Charles Krauthammer, “a (President-elect) with a wider gap between his estimation of himself and the sum total of his lifetime achievements?”

Has there ever been a luckier man, a less probable political lottery winner?

Can’t think of one.

I am not comfortable with feeble human attempts at scriptural interpretation. There is, for example, a Biblical passage that directs mankind to “be anxious for nothing.” Interpretation: It’s never as bad as you think.

With all due respect to the letter writers whose work became the all-time bestseller, these guys could not have imagined anxiety as we know it in 2008 A.D. With the world economy teetering just in time to elevate the fortunes of the most inexperienced, unqualified Presidential candidate in American history, I’d say we should be anxious for nearly everything.

Let me offer anecdotal evidence. There was a time when a guy would have been feeling pretty good about himself if, on the same afternoon, he was upgraded to First Class and seated next to a Baptist minister. That’s like one degree of separation from sharing warm mixed nuts with the Almighty himself.

This actually happened to me last Sunday. But if the angels were singing, I couldn’t hear them. In fact, I nearly had a stroke. I was anxious, very anxious. It was, after all, a United Airlines First cabin, thus only slightly less claustrophobia inducing than Economy. And the minister was a man slight of build, large of ego and top heavy with hair gel named Alfred Charles Sharpton Jr. (A friend partially captured the moment at left).

“Oh my God!” I thought, not as a prayer. “I am sitting next to Al Fricking Sharpton.”

The so-called Reverend, a preacher of white hatred and stoker of the simmering embers of racial rage across America, presented quite a dilemma. He would not look at, or acknowledge, me, of course. So what to do? Do I engage him in conversation? Do I say, “I’m a white knuckle flier, you?”

Do I ask him to explain his public comments during the racially charged verbal flogging of the wrongly accused (of rape) members of the Duke University men’s lacrosse team? (The context was there, as we were flying out of Raleigh-Durham International airport, only miles from the Duke campus). Should I remind him what he said in 2006, on live television? That “when the prosecutors went forward (to seat a grand jury), they clearly have said this girl is the victim.” (Turns out she was a victim of her own stupidity).

Do I mention recent reports that Sharpton and organizations with whom he is identified owe city, state and federal governments more than $1.5 million in unpaid taxes and penalty fees? Strikes me as a lot of wealth the Rev. has tied up that should be designated instead to Presidential candidate Barack H. Obama’s wealth redistribution plan. What kind of civil rights activist denies that kind of money to needy, ordinary folk?

If I rile him, and he tells me I am a race carding white elitist, do I remind Sharpie about the size of the race card (more like a billboard) he whipped out against former Republican Presidential candidate Mitt Romney, a white Mormon? (”As for the one Mormon running for office, those who really believe in God will defeat him anyways, so … that’s a temporary situation,” he said in 2007).

Dare I remind Rev. Al that, when a self-declared Presidential candidate in 2003, he gladly appeared behind the pulpit as a guest in the Chicago Roman Catholic church of radical priest Michael Pfleger (a.k.a., a longtime Obama spiritual adviser)? Did this amount to an endorsement of Pfleger’s race baiting sermons and unbridled bigotry?

Instead, the Rev. and I sat in silence. I was listening to audio entertainment, while reading a magazine and a Republican National Committee newsletter called Rising Tide. He was reading a paperback entitled, “The Shack”. It is a runaway bestseller about a grief stricken father who eventually encounters God in the flesh of a chatty black woman during an encounter inside a rural shack.

Which reminds me, it could have been worse on Sunday. I could have been seated next to Michelle Obama.

Be anxious. Be very, very anxious.

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.