Diatribune

I ate the fried chicken breast and salad that Uncle Bud fixed for me, while listening to C-Span's replay of some of LBJ's taped phone calls. Uncle Bud suggested I listen to them to find out how a real politician worked. LBJ was Uncle Bud's favorite Democrat. Come to think of it, LBJ was damn near the only Democrat he admired. He loved the way the big Texan could overwhelm any opposition. "Listen carefully, and you can hear the toilet flush," Uncle Bud had said as he walked out the door. "The bastard's chewing out the Speaker of the House from the can! And I swear, when he flushes, he must be holding the receiver in the bowl, just so the Speaker knows where he's calling from!" I guess style is in the eyes, and ears, of the beholder, but I have to admit that McCormack seemed shaken by the flush, and his initial objections were swept away in the spiraling woosh. He promptly agreed to pass the latest Supplemental Funding Request for the Viet Nam War, and hung up. I think he was desperate to get off the the line before the President of the United States and the Leader of the Free World audibly sighed and zipped his pants with a grunt.
  A loud knock on the door interrupted my lesson in practical politics. I hit the mute and hollered, "C'mon in!" The door swung open and slammed against the wall. "The White Wonder!" boomed the bass voice of Freedom Fyter. His six foot, five inch frame filled the doorway.

  "Homely!" I responded, jumping to feet and heading to the door for some back slamming, arm punching, and general greeting rituals typical of old male friends who've known each other since Junior High. I was "the White Wonder" because Fyter's neighborhood boys had never met a white boy who could out-jump them. He was "Homely" because I mistakenly called him that early on in our friendship, when I had misheard his friends talking about "Homies." I have never lived that one down 
  "Damn good to see you, old bean," Fyter had reverted to his Lord Peter Wimsey voice.
  "Oh god, Agatha Christie still?" I moaned. Fyter loved voices and mysteries. He had a habit of slipping into the voice of whatever he was reading.
  "No, old thing, been too busy to wallow in the oeuvre of the sainted Mrs. Christie. Have you heard of BBC7? Jolly good fun!"
  "That's not another one of those offers that my spam filter catches, is it?"
  "No, no, you silly goose, I tell you all about it later. I have news."
  "Good news or bad news?"
  "Good news and, just maybe, better news."
  I smiled at my old friend. It was great to see FF back to his old self. The last time I'd seen him, he and Uncle Bud had a tremendous row, (Good Lord, he's got me doing it!), a heated argument, and he'd stormed out of the bar.
  "Sit down, and tell me the better news first. You want something from the bar?"
  I called down for a Bass Ale and FF ordered a "G & T, dont'cha know."
  "Well, it's like this, Wonderbread," said FF, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "I met a new guy."
  A huge grin spread across his face and the years dropped away. His infectious joy took me back three decades, and we were two college guys again, talking excitedly about our new objects of desire.
  "So, tell me."
  "Well, there maybe a problem."
  "What? He is gay, right?"
  "Oh, yeah."
  "Is he married?"
  "Right, I'm stupid enough to go through that mess again."
  "Is he on the low down?"
  "Christ! Wonderbread. It's the down low. Talk white, will you? You know that I'm bilingual, and you're hopeless."
  "Sorry. My bad. Is he stupid? Hideous? Republican?"
  "No, no, and redundant.
  "I give up? Three-legged? Tri-sexual? Oh please, please, tell me he's not a vegan, a Wiccan, or a Notre Dame fan. I have standards, you know. They're low, but they are standards."
  "No, no, no, it's not like that. It's.... it's that he's .... he's short."
  I looked up into FF's pained face. He was cringing, waiting for the blow.
  "How short," I asked quietly, struggling to keep a straight face. "Short like point guard short or like scrappy second baseman short?"
  "Like jockey short," mumbled FF wincing, and then a storm swept over his face and he glared fiercely at me. "One Mutt and Jeff joke and you're dead."
  I spread my open palms in the air. "No problem," I promised, smiling innocently. "You can trust me."
  He narrowed his eyes and, and then let out a great, defeated sigh. "Just don't say anything around Malik, OK, this is tough for him, too. And he is a great guy."
  I grinned. "Deal, Jeffy. He is over 5 feet, right?"
  "Five feet, three inches, and damn proud of it."
"Where'd you met him?"
  "Ah, that's where the good news comes in."

  We sent down for another drink, and settled into the kitchen chairs around the old formica table. FF turned down my offer of cold fried chicken, patting his lean stomach while pointedly eyeing my convex one. He accepted a salad, and slid a small black leather bag under the table with his foot. Until then, I hadn't noticed that he still carried the infamous black bag that he'd brought from Detroit with him.

  Vic brought up the drinks. FF stretched out his legs, leaned the chair onto its back legs, folded his arms behind his head, and locked his fingers together so that his head was cradled in his huge hands. I knew that pose well. It was time for a good story.

  FF paused for effect, he loved the spotlight, and then began. "Did you hear about the recent debate in the House over representation in the House and Senate for DC? Well this Republican cracker said that we didn't need representation in Congress because we already had 535 members with a vested interest in making the District work. They were all looking out for li'l ole us."
  "That's Imus level stupidity and racism," I said, shaking my head.
  "Don't get me started on Imus. If that fool turns east on Pennsylvania Avenue and crosses the river, he better keep his car moving until he's deep into Maryland."
  "Amen," I said.
  "So, I'm at having some coffee and chili at Ben's Chili Bowl, and I hear some brothers and sisters talking about the cracker and how we have so many people representing us. They were pissed, but what caught my ear was that they had a plan. I went over an introduced myself. One of the sisters said we should call him on it. If he was so concerned about the problems of DC, let's tell him about them.  And then Malik, that's when I first saw him, agreed that that was a great idea, but we could do even more. Seems that Malik has a some friends at dcist.com, you know them?"
  "Um, help me out."
  "They're a DC blog. You've read it."
  "Right.  Got it."
  "Anyway, someone posted about the cracker's stupid comments, and called for DC residents to flood the idiot's office with complaints about everything from rats, to pot holes, to the DC schools, to busted street lights, to crime. Some people even headed down to his office for "constituient meetings." And damn if the District didn't come through. His office was flooded was demands for "DC's new Representative."
  "Unfortunately, we sort of mixed up the crackers, they really do all look alike you know. Turns out that the person who made the comment was Rep. Louie Gohmert (R-Tex.) So we'll have to shift to his office, but the point was made. The Post had a piece on it."
  FF reached for his gin and tonic and grinned. The man loved good street theater.
  "You've been a busy man, Fyter. You've help ridicule a Congressman and meet a new guy."
  Freedom Fyter waggled his eyebrows and finished his drink.
He set the glass on the table and fixed me with a grin. He paused, a classic FF dramatic pause, then he spoke in little above a whisper. "My new friends and I plan to do more than ridicule red-neck Congress-clowns." He reached down and lifted the black bag onto the table. "Come 2008, DC votes for a Representative and a Senator." He patted the bag and smiled.