Running with Jesus
GOP primary a test of faith
BY JASON VEST
'Tis early yet, and the crowd here at Dole HQ is
still a bit thin. Dole (aka Dead Man Walking)
hasn't arrived to celebrate his Lazarus-like
electoral resurrection, but he is supposed to appear
shortly in all his glory to claim primary victory
over Pat Buchanan, America's answer to Juan Peron.
The past few days have been uncertain for the
Kansas-based lackey of Ernest and Julio Gallo (total
contributions to Dole: $381,000). While he blew into
the state with the support of former governor Carroll
Campbell, the dimwitted sitting Gov. David Beasly and
the nearly calcified bone of the American body
politic, Sen. Strom Thurmond, Pat Buchanan's
aggressive pursuit of the
Save-The-Unborn-And-Say-Hallelujah! vote caused Dole
to flee the state and wait for the exit poll results.
(To risk staying in the state after defeat would look
humiliating, and in American campaigns, the image, as
we know, is everything.)
So Dole blew out but made sure he was in striking distance of South
Carolina. A good hour and a half before the polls closed, the exit numbers
were looking good, so it was wheels up from Maine. Any moment now, he'll
be touching down and rolling towards this building at the state
fairgrounds, where the crowd of predictably young, well-coiffed adjutants
and aging but enthused supporters will whoop, holler and wave their
placards with glee.
Meanwhile, a band that sounds like it was recruited from a local
version of Bob's Country Bunker plays bland, conventional countryish
melodies and feel-good white blues
the
latter arrangements no doubt played in honor of the memory of the late Lee
Atwater, the Machiavellian political operative and amateur blues guitarist
who both built the GOP machine in South Carolina and presided over George
Bush's ascension in 1988.
In many respects, tonight is something of a tribute to Atwater's
political vision for this state. It was Atwater who hit upon the notion of
putting the primary in between the pivotal poles of Iowa/New Hampshire and
Super Tuesday, thereby giving South Carolina considerable influence in
determining the outcome of tight primary races. The arrangement also
confers increased importance on the GOP power brokers in South Carolina
in
this instance, former governor Campbell, who hopes Dole will offer him the
vice presidency (or at least a cabinet position) for his efforts here and
elsewhere in the South.
But it's Dole's night nonetheless. "This is one of those nights you
will remember where you were, because this is the launching pad
now,
[victory] is inevitable," one of Dole's underlings told the assembled
crowd. Of course, the sap also told the crowd that Dole deserved respect
for not taking a pay raise in 10 years, which should give one a sense of
the banality of the modern campaign. Dole is, after all, not a poor man;
he routinely flees Washington not for the plains of Kansas, but for his
Bal Harbour condo just north of Miami Beach. (The condo, it bears noting,
was sold to Dole at a below-market price by Dwayne Andreas, a longtime
contributor to Dole's campaigns and CEO of the gigantic Archer Daniels
Midland, one of the largest recipients of Senate-originated corporate
welfare in America.)
Dole's wife, meanwhile, has collected tens of thousands of dollars in
speaking fees and appears to have been involved in a shady real
estate/bank loan deal herself profited off a dubious business deal
herself, a la Hillary, as both The New Yorker and the Center
for Public Integrity have noted in recent months.
But these finer points are either unknown to this crowd, or they are
of little consequence. Based on a quick round of interviews with those in
attendance, on balance, they seemed remarkably ignorant of specifics. "I
like his positions on character and moral issues," explained Heather Zemp,
a 28-year-old paralegal.
Which particular issues?
"Uh, basically how family. Basically we have to get back to the
family, to children, right and wrong."
Right. Specifically?
"God," she said, not as an answer, but as an invocation for guidance.
"I'm trying to think here probably hmmm. I think helping middle income
families
basically with taxes, Social Security stuff like that."
And with that, she flitted away.
Not that Ms. Zemp has been the only person down here to do that in
past week. Whenever matters that require either specifics or thought come
up, most everyone
including the candidates and the journalists covering them
seem
to casually but decisively recede into the fog. Not that this should be
surprising: campaigns, after all, are the antithesis of anything vaguely
thoughtful. If anything, they are a working illustration of Plato's
Gorgias: that, compared with philosophy, oratory has no intrinsic value,
because while oratory seeks to persuade by whatever rhetorical means
necessary, philosophy is about discerning the truth through sometimes
painful self-reflection.
Simply put, there is no room for intellectual honesty on the campaign
trail.
Buchanan has, perhaps, proved to be the best manifest example of this
principle, though Dole runs a close second. Buchanan would be an
absolutely hilarious political oddity to behold if everyone, as opposed to
the roughly 70 percent who do not vote for him, had consecutively firing
neurons. Of all the phonies in this campaign, he stands out the clearest:
the quintessential insider posing as the outsider; the longtime defender
of corporations and Reagan conservatism now acting as advocate of the
working man; the proud Irish Catholic who employs the same nativist
rhetoric used against his ancestors 100 years ago; the former FBI
propagandist posturing as champion of the forces against the Orwellian
"New World Order"; the millionaire conservative media maven (who became
the first pundit to appear in various mediums seven days a week)
"victimized" and "attacked" by a supposedly liberal media.
But Buchanan is a master melder of rhetorical styles, combining, as
ex-Nixon speechwriter William Gavin recently noted in a Washington Post
op-ed column, George Wallace's rhetoric of anger with Hubert
Humphrey's rhetoric of compassion. Additionally, he has fused in the code
phrases the far-right uses in its appeals ("New World Order" for the
militias, "Ruth Bader Ginsburg" for the Zionist Occupation Government
conspiracy theorists, "Jose" for the xenophobic constitutionalists,
"disarming" for the NRA zealots, etc., et al., ad nauseam) to appeal to
the more warped, disaffected elements of the American polity.
Finally
but
at least honestly
he
hocks up his verbal sputum about the necessity of sustained "cultural
warfare" against everyone who doesn't believe the passing of Coughlin,
McCarthy and Franco were good things for the world, and indulges himself,
and his followers, with heartfelt homilies to the unborn.
All these elements stewed together result in a distinctly potable
stump brew that his crowds get drunk on, which is a strangely compelling
sight to behold, as if elements of a Chataqua lecture, a George Wallace
rally, a Pentecostal revival and a Leni Riefenstahl film simultaneously
converged
in
short, fanaticism coupled with base spirituality. But to people in either
remote physical environs or small homogeneous communities
both
realms where The New York Times is seldom seen, where "family" has
become a freestanding political ideology and abortion is seen as the
advance guard against "family"
the
message resonates.
And while the message may not resonate with the media, its sheer
peculiarity, along with Buchanan's humorous and energetic style, does. So
much so, in fact, that not only has the mainstream media erroneously
anointed him an embracer of leftist ideas based on his positions against
NAFTA and GATT, but even some bonafide leftist journalists, most notably
Alexander Cockburn, have become Buchananites. I present the following
partial exchange with one such journalist:
"My experience with Pat has been that he's honest, and I believe he's
honestly concerned about the plight of working people," said Nation
contributor Eric Alterman, whose column is supposedly devoted to
checking right-wing extremists.
"Yeah," I said, "but he's not for raising the minimum wage, banning
striker replacement, allocating money for worker retraining or
strengthening unemployment insurance provisions
all
of which are part of the labor agenda."
"But he's honest when he says he doesn't believe unions are good for
America." A pause, during which I think, since when have leftists been
against unions? Alterman resumes: "I'm really having a hard time, though,
reconciling these anti-Semitic code statements he's been making, because
it's been my experience he means what he says, and that just doesn't sound
like stuff he'd mean."
Which, if true, would at least put Buchanan on the level of Karl
Lugar, the mayor of late-19th century Vienna, Austria. While Lugar built
a career on anti-Semitism, many of his closest friends were Jewish; Lugar,
in fact, had little true antipathy for Jews. But like most who seek office
and become determined to hold onto power, he realized the value in slight,
slander and demonization and, to further his political fortunes, employed
these more vile tools of the political trade without hesitation. If
Buchanan is doing the same thing, he is worse than a true bigot; he is an
opportunist.
But, then, so is Dole, who has been in full pander mode since he
arrived here. While Buchanan may not think about what he says, or
understand how to solve the nation's ills, there is little doubt that one
some level he feels for people. With Dole, it's a bit more difficult to
tell.
In South Carolina, there are essentially three demographics:
traditionalist whites, poor blacks and New Southerners, the latter of
which is middle- to upper-income, educated and racially mixed. For the
purposes of the primary, the second group is of little consequence, and
much of the third group is Dole's for the taking. The New Southerners are
a vaguely enlightened strain of libertarian conservatives, the architects
and beneficiaries of a successful decade-old state economic policy rooted
in foreign trade and investment. To them, Buchanan's isolationist and
protectionist sentiments are buncombe.
The traditionalists (or, more specifically, conservative Christians),
however, are another story, and the battle has been for their votes. As
such, one of the more important events in this primary was a Christian
Coalition rally/presidential candidate forum on Thursday night.
After interviewing about 15 of the assembled brethren, it became clear
that many in attendance were Buchanan supporters and they were not
supporting him based on his trade views. The majority interviewed cited
stopping abortion as their highest priority. Beyond this, there seemed to
be little else that mattered. Connie Harness, the 49-year-old wife of a
country doctor, said she was for Buchanan based on his pro-life views. "As
president, I expect him to do what he's said
do
away with abortion, and put America First," she said.
Another attendee, Lutheran pastor John Groth, had come from Hickory,
N.C., his family in tow, to determine "which candidate is going to do the
most to save the lives that are being lost to abortion." It was a common
theme in every interview, and one Buchanan played to when he addressed the
crowd.
But before Buchanan and the rest appeared, the assembled media had to
endure the requisite number of saccharine, inspirational songs sung by
blow-dried evangelicals and a lengthy opening prayer, which included one
"for those on the other side of the culture war.")
Luckily, a few of us hacks had fortified ourselves with the
appropriate numbing, anti-nausea inebriants in the parking lot awhile
before, and we were grateful, for none other than Ralph Reed (Machiavelli
with a Cross?) showed up to excoriate all the "Christian-bashers" (read:
Christian Coalition critics) in American politics. [and, in a simultaneous
call for theocracy and payment of lip service to those at the IRS and FEC
who keep an eye out for signs of partisanship in tax-exempt organizations,
reminded his soldiers that ultimately, they marched not "under a banner
which bears an elephant or donkey, but under the banner of our savior."
Then the crowd sang "God Bless America," prompting me to wonder if it
might be possible to seek words of reassurance from Woody Guthrie via
Ouija board.
Finally, Pat bounded out on stage, wife in tow, and launched into his
spiel. While his defenses of the Confederate flag and condemnation of the
World Trade Organization were well received, his vow to appoint anti-Roe
vs. Wade Supreme Court justices inspired many in the crowd to rise
to their feet, chanting "Go Pat Go" and waving "Buchanan for President"
bumper stickers (and technically violating the integrity of the Christian
Coalition's 501 c3 status).
It looked like it would be a hard performance to beat. But then Gov.
Beasley, a proud born-again, came out and spoke of Dole's devotion to the
cause of conservative Christianity. Then the man himself appeared on
stage, flanked by Campbell, senators Thurmond and John McCain (R-AZ) and
Rep. J.C. Watts (D-OK). As they stood on either side of Dole, the
candidate almost immediately thanked "my good friend Pat Robertson and my
good friend Ralph Reed," and, in a tone that sounded cranky and petulant,
reminded the assembled that on their past three legislative scorecards,
"Bob Dole has scored 100, 100, 100!," punctuating each "100" with a jab of
his chronically balled up left fist.
He seemed to hit every specific issue of concern the Coalition truly
cares about, from abortion to that favorite culture war bogeyman, the
National Endowment for the Arts.
"I know the difference between Michelangelo and Mapplethorpe," he sort
of wheezed. "The government shouldn't be taking your tax money and paying
for filth like Mapplethorpe, and when Bob Dole's president, it's not going
to happen!"
The applause on that point was more than respectful, and by the time
he was done (having, among other things, vowed to kill the Department of
Education and return America to the era of "Just Say No"), the crowd
seemed swayed.
And in the end, they were
Dole
effectively split the conservative Christian vote here, and won the day.
It's an important victory for him, but looking at him, one can't help but
wonder if the strain is coming to bear. Not only is his tendency to mumble
and verbally stray off course increasing, but he looks exhausted. His
partisans here have told everyone they can that above all, people should
vote for Dole because "he can win." Doubtless he will get the nomination.
But by the time he reaches San Diego, his campaign coffers will be nearly
empty, and he will still be contending with the annoyance of Buchanan
in
short, not the ideal scenario on the eve of a general election.
But if anyone stands to benefit from this contest, it is Carroll
Campbell. It was Campbell and Lee Atwater who effectively made the state
a GOP bulwark, and Campbell has kept it so. Much like Arkansas, South
Carolina is one of those places run by an oligarchy comprised of a handful
of white business families and a coterie of alternatively genteel and
combative
but
always shrewd
politicians. Campbell and Atwater delivered the state to George Bush in
1988, and while Campbell was governor, Atwater became the most powerful
South Carolinian in Washington. Since then, Campbell has been like the
GOP's southern capo, a key player in strategic party decisions.
He is now on the verge of stepping out from behind the scenes and onto
the national stage, and even if Bob Dole goes down in flames, he wins.
Should Dole offer the nomination to him and the ticket loses, Campbell's
profile on the national scene rises dramatically
which
will allow him to start laying a foundation for a presidential bid in
2000. If he is not offered the v.p. slot and Dole wins, he will certainly
get a cabinet appointment, and continue building his national power base
from there.
But even in the apparently worst case scenario
no
v.p. nomination, no cabinet appointment, no Dole election
Campbell still wins, my sources here tell me. As inveterate political
junkies may know, Thurmond, at 93, has declared he will run for yet
another term. GOP intimates here say that Thurmond has no intention of
actually serving his term; rather, he will resign shortly after
re-election, and Gov. Beasley
who
owes his political viability to Campbell
will
appoint Campbell to Thurmond's seat, giving Campbell a national position.
This plan may yet be foiled, though, because though feared, Thurmond
is weak, and rumor has it that the secretary of state, Jim Miles, will
challenge Thurmond in the primary; if successful, so much for Campbell's
hopes of going to the Senate without having to endure an election.
But even then, life won't be bad for Campbell. This proponent of
devolution now lives in Washington, tooling around town in a fuchsia BMW,
raking in over a million a year as an insurance lobbyist.
D.C.-based writer Jason Vest wrote this story for the Kansas
City New Times. Our thanks to both for permission to reprint.
These elements stewed together result in a potable stump brew that Buchanan crowds get drunk on...in short, fanaticism coupled with base spirituality.
The assembled had to endure the requisite number of sacharrine, inspirational songs sung by blow-dried evangelicals and a lengthy opening prayer, including one "for those on the other side of the culture war."
