“Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.” - H.L. Mencken

Over on the TH front page today we have this offering from Michael Barone “A Step Back From Enviro Lunacy”. Mr. Barone makes an argument for drilling and nuclear power and an escape from environmentalism. Although I support his overall conclusion, I remain unconvinced that his analysis would bear close scrutiny on several points. He points to the more centralized (read socialist) governments as being in a better position to ignore enviro-wackos but fails to point out that Japan, France and Chicago (not technically a country), his examples, also have very high gas prices because of the taxation, the result of socialism, that goes along with central planning and authority. He correctly identifies $4 a gallon as the tipping point that stirs the masses and here is where we diverge.

It's $4 for a hue and cry but where is the tipping point for congress? $5? $6? The tipping point for congress is the price at which democrats begin to throw THEIR bad apples out of congress. I don't see any sign of that happening.

Environmental obstructionism is a large part of the problem, but an uneducated or disengaged public is an even bigger one. A politicized judiciary doesn’t help much either as they hand down ruling after ruling against the best interests of the public. Remember, carbon being defined as a pollutant is a SCOTUS decision, not a scientific fact. As Justice Scalia correctly observed in the decent, the loose definition of airborne pollutants is broad enough to include Frisbees under that ruling. Anyone care to plug Frisbees into that AGW computer model?

An issue of this magnitude requires leadership, leadership we obviously don’t have in place with our current crop of finger in the wind politicians. Where then is the leadership on this issue? Obama? Hardly, he thinks $4 is fine. McAmnesty? Lukewarm, he’s busy trying to be a democrat himself. Mr. Newt the Green Conservative? I think not, the image of him playing slap and tickle with Red Nanny is still too fresh. T. Boone with his birdie cuisinarts? He's just in it for the federal subsidizes on wind power. Who and where is the Anti-Gore?

If Mr. Barone is correct it takes money and a mouthpiece to turn back 35 years of wandering in the green wilderness. Doesn’t anyone out there want to be as rich as Al Gore? Win an Oscar? Pick up that Nobel Prize you always wanted?

We need a movement and movements require leaders. A leaderless Army is easily defeated, not so, an Army with a Washington, a Lee or a Patton standing at it’s head. So I repeat, who wants to lead? The Army is here. Where’s the General?

Today marks the 38th anniversary of my marriage. I knew that I would write about this subject today, but I had not, until this moment, known precisely what direction this article would take. There is the obvious, and I might add safe, direction of a saccharine sweet tribute to marriage, filled with recollections of life’s “little” moments. The problem with this approach is found in the fact that after all these years those moments have been brief, albeit enjoyable, but they are not what has made it such a great experience.

I offer instead one of my fondest memories of our life together, which I like to call “The Great Philadelphia Shopping Trip”, or simply, “The Philadelphia Massacre”.

In 1976 we decided it was time to put down roots and became first time homeowners. We bought a beautiful new two story, three-bedroom house with two baths, dining room and kitchen. After 6 years in apartments it seemed like a mansion but was in reality 1200 sq ft on a postage stamp lot, yet we had “arrived”. Once we were settled in, the thought occurred that we needed “stuff” to decorate our new digs and since we hadn’t visited relatives in Philly for a while we would take a week’s vacation and do two birds with one stone.

A winter trip to Philadelphia can be iffy but weather cooperated and we arrived under overcast skies, the snow had stopped and the streets were clear of snow. Rain was in the forecast but didn’t figure to be a hindrance. On Monday we set out on the great adventure filled with enthusiasm and accompanied by my wife’s sister and her roommate. Our first stop was in Chestnut Street, which at that time was wall-to-wall specialty stores in a typical downtown shopping setting. I visited Brookstone, which was different than the modern version and specialized in unique tools that last, and I was pleased to come away with some items for my then, infant hobby addiction. The girls wanted to hit the clothing stores so we headed away from “Willy Penn”, that’s City Hall for those unfamiliar with the statute on top of that building, and the newly erected “Giant Cloths Pin”, part of the bi-centennial celebration, in search or rag merchants. Travel on the sidewalks was limited to a tiny path down the center with snow piled up on either side and forced pedestrians to move in cooperative method involving frequent crab like steps to allow two-way traffic.

On emerging from the last clothing store it was decided that we would head to B. Dalton Book Sellers. My wife was engaged in an animated conversation with her sister and sliding into the pedestrian traffic, still heavily engaged in conversation over her shoulder, mistimed the crab walk and jostled an old gentleman coming from the other direction. He began his imitation of an Olympic backstroker and before I could grab him went backwards over the snow pile. You remember the snow piles? He landed on his back in the street in the path of an oncoming “J” bus. The bus stopped well short but it was the sight of his “white cane” bouncing in the street that caught my attention. I looked up the street and saw my party rapidly receding in complete ignorance of the entire incident. I helped him up and hurried away.

I overtook the ladies and said to my wife, “You just knocked a blind man in the street!” to which she replied, “I never touched him, he probably just slipped.” and with that they all turned for the bookstore. Ah! Philadelphia, “City of Brotherly Love”!

As we proceeded the skies opened and a downpour reminiscent of what Noah must have experienced descended and we quickened our pace, arriving at the bookstore dripping and cold. B. Dalton Book Sellers in this particular location was in one of the old style cavernous buildings familiar to those who remember “downtown” shopping in the 50’s. It was a huge marble and terrazzo mausoleum with a thirty-foot ceiling on the ground floor and 5 stories above served by stairs or one tiny elevator. At the entrance was a promotional table that ran the entire depth of the store, which was about 200 feet. The table was artfully arranged with new releases stacked in multiple tiers with a single copy arranged in front, half open, and standing on end to display the cover. As we shook off the rain at the entrance my wife turned, still in deep conversation, and tossed her shopping bag on the end of the table. Slowly the first book toppled and with an ever-increasing speed, in classic domino effect, took out the other displays until the final volume landed flat on the terrazzo floor. Bang! At this point I might remind the reader of how quiet it is in a bookstore, particularly one that is essentially a gigantic marble cave. The acoustics were terrific! I could hear the final bang quite distinctly from the safety of the fifth floor where I had taken refuge upon seeing the first book fall. I was only thirty then and could take stairs two and three at a time. Which I did!

After the hubbub died down we decided to depart for friendlier environs in the “burbs”. Bloomies was to be next into the crucible. Upon arriving we headed to the housewares department since as new homeowner’s we of course needed many delightful kitchen touches to complete our decorating scheme, at least to the best of my recollection that is what she told me we were doing. We began to shop. My wife located a spice rack she thought would be perfect. This was a very typical spice rack of the late 70’s made of high quality plastic in an array of primary colors and angled to resemble a honey cone. Each compartment held one glass spice bottle and it was intended for wall mounting. This was a particularly fine example of the plastic injectors art and contained no less than 24 individual spice jars. This stunning piece was presented for my inspection since I’m the one who cooks. I thought it had potential but after the morning shopping, price was beginning to be an object. I asked, “How much is it?” she said, “I don’t see a price on it.” and proceeded to look on the back. It was once again time for our old friend Mr. Terrazzo to get into the act. Twenty-four tiny glass bottles cascaded to the floor and began a strange dance macabre as they bounced and alternately broke into tiny shards. It was a truly magnificent sight to behold. A Bloomingdales employee was quick on the scene with dustpan and broom and a knowing look. She said that it happened frequently and that she had told the manager not to take the tape off the bottles, refused our offer to pay, and brought to a close our shopping adventure.

38 years is a long time and much water has passed under the bridge. We’ve weathered wars, presidential resignations, stagflation, attempted assassinations, kids, heart attacks, cancer, diabetes, and college tuition. Good times and bad times, been broke and flush, had great vacations and not so great vacations, good friends and even better family and once even a whole house redecoration. Too many moments really to remember and yet in the end it is times like the “Great Philadelphia Massacre” that brings a smile to my face and warms my heart. It’s been fun and who knows we still can look forward to that first broken hip. Happy Anniversary Honey, I love you!