Sundays with FDR: The Times of Our
Lives
Friedman, Dowd and Rich. Here’s a column
dedicated to the New York Times trio—Tom, Maureen and Frank—who enrich
our lives immeasurably here at the Gay Kennedy Compound every summer
Sunday.
The fact that their combined initials equal
the iconic head of the “big D” Democratic Party may or may not be
coincidence, but it’s a delicious one for three brilliant boomers—60
years since the New Deal and fireside chats. The trio of columns—all
located within three square feet on a page—have never been
better—inversely proportionate to the direction of our country.
Throughout the long dreary winter, I still
read the trio with brio religiously—but in summer, I’m able to discuss
their brilliant work and hysterical pithy perspectives with the smartest
men on the planet—my compound mates. From our wicker rocker perches on
the front porch, with the fans whirring above and the birds chirping in
the trees, our weekly FDR coffee klatch is as regular for us as Sunday
fried chicken was in our childhoods. While the grease is gone, the
geniuses flourish—Pulitzers on our own porch, courtesy of the Times. If
you’re really, really, really angry at Bush-Cheney, Inc. (71 out of 100
Americans are—on our porch its eight for eight)—and if you would
really, really like to tell them off, here’s the ticket to the most
incisive commentary you’ll find. It’s my Monday morning water cooler
briefing—and yes, I judge my co-workers by what they read.
F is for Friedman, the man who has mother
earth’s back and last week wrote poignantly on Mothers’ Day about
recently losing his own beloved mom. Having mother earth’s back is a
tough job when out front is Halliburton writing energy policy behind
closed doors. Coaxing the kids of today to take on the environment as
their Sputnik is lonely but important work, but the tide may be turning.
Kids are more engaged today than during those dark Reagan years of yore
when the only thing green anyone was taught to respect was printed at the
mint. Hats off to Tom’s mom for delivering us a very special human
being.
D is for Dowd, and in full diva disclosure,
I need to state up front that I would drink Maureen Dowd’s bath water.
If I had to choose a favorite quotable among thousands, it has to be the
column after the new and even more conservative German pontiff was elected
in Rome. No sooner had the white smoke risen than her black humor zapped.
Quote: “For you ‘cafeteria Catholics’—cafeteria closed.” Heroine
worship doesn’t begin to cover my love for the quips, quotes and belly
laughs—each zinging in brilliant sing-song prose. In the dream sequence,
she visits us in Rehoboth and we all go shoe shopping. Amongst her other
works, she wrote the book Are Men Necessary—and the answer is yes, yes,
yes. Eight gay men await you on the porch, Maureen—we’ll go for
pedicures first and then shoe shop ‘til we drop.
R is for “isn’t it Rich?”—is he a
pair of journalists or what? Transitioning from the Gay Sports Section
(Arts and Leisure) to commentary at Week in Review, our man isn’t just
Frank. He’s brutal. Formerly taking aim at the Bard, we much prefer his
takes on politics and homophobic hypocrites.
The Sunday Style section of the Times is
read afterwards with guilty pleasure. After stimulating our grey matter,
it’s time to review the party scene and imagine party frocks descending
staircases at venues for the very rich. A caterer I know calls them
“dances for diseases.” Then, the voting begins on the most pretentious
names. Tinsley Mortimer receives the gold, with the silver (spoon, no
doubt) a tie between Piper Perabo and Icy Franz. Now anyone who ever
attended elementary school has heard the ditty “I see England, I see
France. I see Betty’s under pants.” Icy Franz???? Don’t blue-blood
parents know the ditty? Or did she “take” the name of her husband,
begging the question, “If you were named Icy and you met a man named
Franz, wouldn’t you move along—or keep your name?”
But as much fun as the party pages are,
it’s the trio with brio that sticks in your head. Read separately, each
of the columns make impeccable points. Read together they recall FDR.
Every time someone calls a building or an airport Reagan, I joke that in
my head I go to the FDR Memorial and genuflect.
But now that spring has sprung, every
Sunday FDR comes to our front porch—for only $5.
Now that’s Rich.
Brent Mundt makes a living in Washington and a life in Rehoboth
Beach.
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