The Vice President, Washington - humorous fictitious letter to Al Gore

National Review, Nov 6, 1995

If this letter sounds funny, it's because my new ThinkPad is in the shop for a radical memory upgrade, so I'm composing this letter in the laborious, time-consuming old-fashioned way -- I'm dictating it into a tiny tape-recorder.

I sent my old computer down to Tennessee, for Dad to use. For some reason, he's become terribly interested in surfing the 'Net, and has logged onto America OnLine several times using the computer at the local Radio Shack, but he called me last week to ask for one of his own. His real concern was ease of use. "Take mine," I said. "It comes fully loaded."

Dad chuckled. "Just like me," he said.

So now I'm stuck talking into a tape-recorder.

That noise you hear in the background is the crowd gathered for today's Million Man March organized by Louis Farrakhan. I'm not entirely clear on why they had to march on a weekday -- I mean, Saturday was good enough for the gays, and from what I know about that community, they really treasure their weekends. Anyway, they would have had a bigger turnout if Rudy Giuliani had given New York City employees the day off. On the other hand, then it would have taken me an hour more to get to work. So I suppose I should be grateful.

Bill, though, is pretty upset about the whole thing. He called an emergency meeting of the Cabinet this morning to discuss what he's not going to discuss and to list the topics no one is supposed to list. First and foremost, no one is supposed to write down the names of the members of the Congressional Black Caucus who are marching with Farrakhan. And we're not supposed to notice that Maya Angelou is running the refreshment stand. And we're not supposed to notice Jesse Jackson and Benjamin Chavis and the male faculty of Howard University and Cornel West and Skip Gates and -- wait a sec! I'm peering out my window and I think I can make out . . . Ron Brown?

What's he doing there? He's carrying something. T-shirts? Ron is selling T-shirts. Okay, I'm opening up the window, I'm leaning out slightly -- "Hey! Ron!"

Ron's looking up and smiling. "Yeah? What do you want, Al? Bill Cosby is about to speak -- I need to make my rounds."

"Ron, Bill asked us specifically not to get involved with this march."

"C'mon, Al. I'm not involved. I'm selling souvenirs. I know this Thai kid does a silk-screen on a three-dollar shirt for fifty cents a throw. That's three-fifty a pop. I sell 'em for fifteen bucks -- twenty for the Martin/Malcolm/Farrakhan/O.J. collage -- I mean, come on! This is my only remaining side business. The Special Prosecutor is picking my pocket."

"Ron, we're really not supposed to have side businesses. And Bill did say that we're all supposed to steer clear of this march. At least until we've had time to figure out how to not reject it."

"Al, when I sold mylar balloons to the gays no one said boo. Now all of a sudden it's off-limits. You know what that is, Al? That's racism."

"Sorry, Ron."

"I guess a black man just can't make a dime in this nation."

"I said I was sorry. Go ahead. Sell your T-shirts."

"It's a damn shame. Black man held down by the man."

"Ron!"

"T-shirts! Mister Johnnie ties! Get your T-shirts!"

He's walking away now, heading for the "What We Blame the Jews for Now" pavilion. I don't know, Rusty. I've got a bad feeling about this march.

In the first place, it's disappointing that hatred still runs rampant in some segments of society. It's not as if we're different under the skin. I mean, who hates and fears law-enforcement officials more -- O. J. Simpson supporters, or white supremacists? I say, take the Million Man March to Ruby Ridge and let the healing begin.

Dad just called. He'd already logged onto a few chat rooms on America OnLine, but he'd been distracted by CNN's coverage of the Million Man March.

"Hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what, Dad? The march?"

"No my boy. That creaking sound. It's LBJ, spinning in his grave." Dad chuckled a bit. I didn't laugh. "What's the matter, my boy?" he asked. "I told the same joke to your mother and she cracked up. Well, I guess you had to be there."

"I am here, Dad. Right here in the middle of it."

"I don't mean there there, I mean you had to be there in 1964. Talk about your comedowns."

He hung up. And so I've just been sitting here, staring out the window --Johnnie Cochran is on now -- listening to the march and enjoying the fall colors. I like this time of year.

See how good I'm getting at ignoring things? Bill would be proud of me.