TIME: Almanac 1993/TIME Almanac 1993.iso/time/072991/0729640.000

Text File | 1992-08-28 | 6.0 KB | 147 lines

                                                                                ESSAY, Page 70

Primary? What Primary?


By John Skow


    To his credit as a Cal Coolidge conservative, President
Bush does not interfere with the internal affairs of a
sovereign nation, the United States. Since all agree that the
country's internal affairs are in woeful shape, this should give
the Democrats a fine opportunity to pelt him with rotten fruit
and dead cats in the most important political yard sale of the
quadrennium, next February's New Hampshire primary. Here in New
Hampshire, however, we are looking at our watches and asking,
"What Democrats? What primary?"

    The only announced candidate to show up so far is Paul
Tsongas, a decent fellow who needs career counseling. This is
serious, because New Hampshire's economy is based largely on
primary filing fees and the political media's bar bills.

    "Dunno," said Mildred, my neighbor. "Seems like Mario
Cuomo should be here by now." We met at the town recycling
center. She was trying to slip an elderly single-bed mattress
past the vigilant fellow who runs the garbage hopper.

    "No mattresses," said the hopper commandant.

    "The lady before me dumped a television."

    "Yup. But no mattresses," the environment's guardian told
her. I helped Mildred stuff the mattress back into her old
Pinto, the one with the REGISTER LIBERALS, NOT GUNS bumper
sticker just below the LIVE FREE OR DIE license plate. A
Democrat with a solution to New Hampshire's mattress problem
could win it all. I know one man who had to bury two old
mattresses in his pasture, like dead cows. Anyway, in all
primary seasons up to now, you would have found Gary Hart or
some other left-winger with good teeth staked out at the town
dump, ready to shake your hand.

    That noon at the Peter Rabbit diner I met Brisket, who
owns the big motel by the interstate, and Graftwell, the paving
contractor. They were having lunch with the Town Fool, one of
our town's two registered Democrats. It was the Fool who in 1988
urged that the Democrats nominate Franklin Delano Roosevelt, on
the theory that F.D.R. at room temperature was smarter than Bob
Dole or George Bush at 98.6. The Constitution, he had pointed
out, requires that a President be native born and at least 35
years old, but does not insist that he be alive. After the
ritualistic denunciation of the Red Sox, which is required of
New England males, our conversation turned to the missing
candidates. "Don't sweat it. They're just a little late, is
all," said Graftwell. He looked sweaty as he said this.

    "They've got to come," said Brisket, a Sununu monarchist.

    "Heigh-ho, primary woe," sang the Fool, jingling the
little bells on his cap.

    "What in tarnation does that mean?" Brisket demanded.
Folks in New Hampshire practice saying "tarnation" and "ay-yuh"
every four years for the network news.

    "Rumble dee, rumble dum, Democrats aren't going to come,"
sang the Fool, doing a little dance step.

    "That's foolish," said Brisket, out of patience. Then he
added, "Sorry. No offense intended. I just meant . . . "

    "Quite all right," said the Fool, pulling a red, white and
blue streamer out of his right ear.

    "But look here," said Brisket, "three lousy ski seasons in
a row, then the banks all catch cold, and the legislature
starts talking about broad-based taxes. Then of course we get
gypsy moths. We gotta have candidates." Brisket values the
two-party system that fills his motel with political staffers.

    Then, as every New Hampshireman knows, Democrats will take
you to lunch, marvel at pictures of your grandchildren and
listen to your views on the perils of fluoridation.

    "Really good guys," Brisket told me in 1988. "That Jesse
Jackson, he bought me pie a la mode. I respect that man." But
now the Fool was saying that the Democrats knew they couldn't
beat Bush in '92. "Whaddya mean?" Graftwell said, trying to
sound encouraging. "The Prez could lose. Four days out of seven,
he's an empty suit. Ay-yuh, if it wasn't for Noriega and Saddam
Hussein and them two wars, nobody but William Safire would know
which one's Bush and which one's Quayle."

    That certainly was true, I thought, but . . . The Fool was
standing on his head juggling American flags. "Hear the
sound-bite, pull the lever, Democrats are gone forever."

    "Lay off Mother Goose," I told him. "What's your point?"

    "Listen and learn," said the Fool. "Since 1776, the
conservatives have had one unshakable idea, and only one."

    "Golf?" asked Brisket.

    "No, that the Federal Government can't do anything right,
and shouldn't try," the Fool explained.

    "Every real American knows that," Brisket agreed.

    "So first Reagan, and then Bush, told the electorate, `The
Federal Government can't do anything right, and watch us prove
it.' And the voters all nodded, saying, `Sure makes sense to
me,' as they watched the S&L mess, the Housing and Urban
Development mess, the defense-contracting messes and the
education mess, the drug-war mess, the homelessness mess, the
health-care mess, the banking mess and more environmental messes
than you want to think about."

    "Well, you can't blame the Republicans for any of that."

    "No one would dream of it," said the Fool. "If the Federal
Government is, by definition, a terrible idea, then running it
incompetently is more praiseworthy than running it well."

    "George Will never said it better."

    "But now you see why not even Al Gore has turned up in New
Hampshire. If total failure succeeds brilliantly for the
Republicans, how does a Democrat campaign? By saying he will
cause complete economic and social collapse?"

    "You could privatize the White House."

    "Reagan already did that."

    "Yeah, well, we still need candidates."

    "We're working on it. Bill Bradley has taken his phone off
the hook, but we're waiting to hear from Zachary Taylor."