THE END GAME

"Genuine tragedies in the world are not conflicts between right and wrong. They are conflicts between two virtues."

-- Christian Friedrich Hebbel

In politics, truth is perception and perception is everything.

Call this a post-mortem and a prognostication.

The altering currents of history rarely flow as we expect and their directions are often guided as much by forces unseen as by the laws of change themselves. So it is that we American travelers find ourselves on this historic political journey where conceptions of race and gender are shifting and competing before our eyes. A woman and an African-American vied for the Democratic Party’s presidential candidacy and, so we are told, this represents a dramatic change in the fortunes of those who have been marginalize for centuries in this country.

Yes and no. Let's hold on a minute.

While, indeed the sensibilities of the average American have changed with respect to gender and race, and the level of tolerance, respect and acceptance of differences that we now see is something of which all Americans should be proud, power is not given up easily and it can be argued that this historic moment is being exploited by those for whom such changes are not always advantageous.

So what exactly has happened and is happening? If we look back and look forward we will find, I believe, that the answer lies in the “End Game.”

POLITICAL CHESS

"All warfare is based on deception."

--Sun Tzu

The Art of War

Good politicians treat the game of politics like a game of chess. In both arenas, the ability to think several moves ahead (or “deep”) is vital to victory. It isn’t enough to attack or counterattack your opponent, you must be able to anticipate his/her response, and his/her response to your response, ad infinitum.

No matter how noble the words, beneath the message is the action that must guide victory: brutal, merciless strategy. Yet action alone is not enough. Luck must be in the favor of a party or its kingmakers. When both strategy and luck are present, the desired result will always occur.

The Republican party has always played the political chess game like a grandmaster for they understand precisely that it is a game. Power is their idealism. The Democrats and liberals, by contrast, have always served as the eager, well-intentioned amateur. They always mistake idealism for power and play the game poorly because of it.

Such is what we have seen before us this year. The Republicans have played the public (and Democrat) hopefulness of an end to gender and racial barriers to power in such a way as to potentially further their own ends and retain power.

THE OPENING GAME

“Divide et impera.”

[“To divide is to conquer.”]

-- Julius Caesar

I. The Obama Gambit

The Republicans know that the best way to defeat the Democrats is to let them defeat themselves, and this is what they set out to do. When your enemy is numerous, what better than to divide them and set them against each other? This is what has occurred.

There is nothing more tragic than to watch two of the Democratic Party's core constituencies turn against each other: African-Americans and women.

And nothing could be better for Republicans.

A Hillary Clinton candidacy represented a strong threat in the general election because she would be strong with the women’s vote and in doing so give a group (women) who have been historically marginalized and discriminated against a chance to achieve a parity of political power with men.

Women represent the majority of voters in America. If they vote as a bloc, they are nearly impossible to defeat in any election. Women make up the largest portion of the electorate (53% of total US voters in the 2004 election). [ See http://www.census.gov/prod/2006pubs/p20-556.pdf for more detail. ]

Should Hillary Clinton have been able to harness a large majority of women voters with her historical candidacy it would have been formidable in the general election against the Republicans. Even with her reputation as a polarizing force, Clinton still would have been likely to inspire even a large number of women who had been cool to her during her career simply due to the fact that she would represent the first viable female candidate for the nation's highest office.

How do you fight that? One way would be to divide women from each other and/or divide them from another core Democratic group. As luck as much as strategy is key to victory, luck would have it for the Republicans that a candidate arose who could help them do just that.

Senator Barrack Obama is arguably the most brilliant and charismatic politician we’ve seen in America in the last 40 years. No candidate in my lifetime has shown a greater ability to inspire and transcend than Senator Obama has. He is a singular personality.

He also happens to be black.

Perhaps no group in American history has suffered under the yoke of discrimination as blacks have. There is no need to catalogue the sins perpetrated against people of African ancestry in this country-- from slavery to Jim Crow, we know them all.

If one wishes to neutralize the power of an historical candidacy of one oppressed group, what better way then to advocate on behalf of the candidacy of another oppressed group.

Fate dropped just such an opportunity in the lap of the Republicans.

Pitting blacks against women serves a second benefit. The Clinton’s have had long and strong support from African-Americans. By turning blacks against Hillary Clinton, it takes away a core voting group and a group that has been one of her bases. Should she prevail against Obama, it would weaken her in the general election.

Similarly, an Obama candidacy could also potentially divide Obama from some demographics of women come general election should he be the Democratic nominee.

Both results have occurred.

Strategically, a candidate who can attract the latter (women) is more dangerous in the general election than a candidate who can attract the African-American vote. Let’s be clear, both groups are needed in order to win, but sheer numbers favor a campaign that captures the excitement of a large number of female voters. African-Americans make up a relatively small portion of the national electorate (11% of total US voters in 2004), while women make up a far larger number as noted above. [ Again, please see http://www.census.gov/prod/2006pubs/p20-556.pdf for more detail. ]

Interestingly, and by contrast, a candidate more attractive to the former (African-Americans) can be more dangerous in the Democratic primaries, especially the early ones, as blacks make up a large portion of Democratic voters in places like South Carolina, Georgia and Louisiana.

If Obama could make a strong showing in the earliest states like Iowa which have a very small black population, he would be positioned to wreak havoc on a Hillary Clinton candidacy early on in states with larger African American populations---potentially being able to eliminate her. That is exactly what happened.

Once Obama won Iowa, it showed that he could carry the white vote and thereby be a legitimate threat to Clinton. Moreover, the black vote, which had once strongly been behind Clinton, deserted her after the Iowa caucuses. While she had strong support of black voters 2 to 1 over Senator Obama before Iowa, the percentage more than reversed with Obama capture 80% of the black vote on average afterward.

Certainly the statements of Senator Clinton’s husband, President Clinton, didn’t help, but this was an unintended bonus that only served to harden black support for Obama and against Clinton. Remember, the percentages flipped before President Clinton’s remarks, not afterward. President Clinton unhinged behavior became a Republican gift that kept on giving.

Now the divide is there, and that divide is beginning to harden. Make no mistake about it. According to the most recent polls, there is a hardening of support on both sides. Many African-Americans have now cooled to Hillary (and Bill) Clinton, while some of Clinton’s female supporters are threatening to not support Obama in the general election.

Hillary Clinton’s favorability ratings among blacks have plummeted by 36% over the last year. Her favorability among blacks now stands at under 40%:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/03/opinion/03blow.html?_r=2&oref=slogin&oref=slogin

Though it should be said that Senator Clinton has continued to reach out to blacks, the wounds caused by what were perceived as racial slights and playing the race card will not be easily healed.

Similarly, many women feel that Clinton has not been treated well because of her gender during the election and have become angered to the point of turning against Senator Obama. Most of the fury has been caused by what is perceived as misogynistic media bias against Senator Clinton, but some have felt that some of Senator Obama’s comments have been condescending towards women. As a result, there is a large groundswell developing directed at getting women to not vote for Senator Obama in the general election:

http://blogs.abcnews.com/politicalpunch/2008/05/women-threaten.html#comments

Though many have said that these wounds will be healed in time for the general election, it remains to be seen. It certainly points to a potential problem for the Democrats.

If the Republican strategy was to foment division, it worked like a charm.

So how did Obama manage to be strong enough to survive in the early primaries and become a viable threat to a once inevitable Clinton candidacy?

First, once it was clear that he could win over white voters, African-Americans were more willing to support his candidacy since it would no longer be something that was simply symbolic, but actually viable. With the legitimacy of his candidacy in hand, Obama was poised to attract black voters in droves.

Second, Senator Obama, as was mentioned above, Senator Obama is an extraordinary politician. Aside from his personal gifts, he’s also run an incredible campaign. Unlike Senator Clinton, who initial ran her campaign as an inevitable coronation, Senator Obama contested strongly in all 50 states, focusing on caucuses as well as primaries. He benefited from incredible enthusiasm from his supporters, particularly younger ones, who responded amazingly to his call for change. Though Senator Clinton has improved her campaign organization as of late and has shown herself to be an incredible candidate, it may be too little too late.

Still, when it comes to African-American candidates, no matter the brilliance or charisma, historically it has been difficult to break the barrier of race. For a party such as the Republican party, whose bread and butter has been exploiting ethnic tensions, a black candidate would have to find cross that historic divide-- or get unexpected help.

Something very strange began happening in 2007. Prominent Republicans began stating their support for Senator Obama or openly expressing their approval of him. Why strange? Because, first, the partisan divide of the last decade or so have rendered people on either side incapable of expressions of admiration for each other. Second, in particular, for the reasons stated above, the Republican Party is not the most likely ally of distinguished liberal black Democratic senator.

The first indicator was the “Republicans for Obama” website which went up in 2007:

http://www.republicansforobama.org/?q=homepage

To be sure, this site has a relatively small number of members, but it was an early, interesting harbinger.

Soon, various prominent Republicans were either announcing their support for Obama or openly showing their approval of him. Tom Bernstein, who co-owned the Texas Rangers with George W. Bush, announced his support in 2007. John Canning, a Chicago financier, is openly supporting Obama. Canning was a “Bush pioneer” donor (meaning he raised at least $100,000 for President George W. Bush in 2004). Susan Eisenhower, granddaughter of President announced her support in 2008. Douglas Kmiec, a former senior Justice Department official under President Reagan supports him.

Robert Kagan, a neoconservative and cofounder of the Project for the New American Century, which was the blueprint for Bush’s foreign policy and the war in Iraq, stated his approval of Obama in 2007 as well. Peggy Noonan, a Ronald Reagan speechwriter, speaks glowingly of him (as she almost never does of most Democrats), and Michelle Bernard, a leading conservative (and some say “anti-feminist” voice) routinely gushes over him on MSNBC.

It makes quite a fascinating snapshot.

In almost every primary, the majority of Republicans who have participated on the Democratic side have supported Obama. In Iowa, against six other opponents in the Democratic primary, Obama won 44% of the Republican vote in an open caucus. Virginia Republicans who voted Democrat voted for Obama 72%-23%. Similarly, Missouri Republicans voting in the Democratic primary voted for Obama 75%-21%, while 72% of Republicans voting Democrat in Wisconsin supported him.

Much has been made in the press about Rush Limbaugh’s call for Republicans to vote for Hillary in the Texas primary in order to cause chaos in the Democratic primary. This was, as always, a brilliant Republican red herring. In point of fact, in Texas, a large number of Republicans pledged their support for Obama before the March 4 primary:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/23394070/

In the final vote, according to exit polls only 9 percent of Texas Democratic primary voters identified themselves as Republican, and of that group, Obama won 53%-46% percent.

There are two ways to look at this. One is that Obama has achieved broad support across party lines, attracting people with his messages of unity, hope and change. Sen. Obama himself would say that. In fact he would challenge any contradictory notion as “cynicism.” In his recent powerful speech on race, which he gave this past March 18, he said this:

“For we have a choice in this country. We can accept a politics that breeds division, and conflict, and cynicism… we can speculate on whether white men will all flock to John McCain in the general election regardless of his policies.”

Much has been made about "Obamacans," or disenchanted Republicans who support Obama. It may very well be the case that a new political alignment is occurring in America with Senator Obama at its center. To be sure, there is some of this happening. If it is truly the case overall, then we are experiencing one of the greatest ideological changes in American history.

But I would argue that the more "cynical" perspective may be the correct one-- and the proof of that will remain to be seen in the general election. Should Republicans support Senator Obama and help him to victory, his take on the matter will have proven right. However should they abandon him and give the election to Senator McCain, then we would have to question what was at play with respect to all the open support he received from the Democrats opposition.

The final result will depend on how the middle and end game of this possible strategy play out.

THE MIDDLE GAME

“The right man is the one who seizes the moment.”

--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

If your opening gambit has gone well in chess, winning requires that you exploit your advantage during the middle game and take tactical control of the middle of the board, methodically cut down your opponent's pieces.

In politics, the middle game represents those long months after the primaries and before the convention. The center of the board in this case is both the political and geographic center of the country, that part of our nation where the populace is presumed to be of moderate or "middle ground" ideology-- neither too liberal nor too conservative.

This is what is called the “Heartland” or “Mid America.”

To control this part of the political game, the usual tactic is for the more liberal Democratic candidate to moderate to his/her right in order to seem more centrist. For the Republican, it's the mirror image-- moderate left for the same effect. Simultaneously, you will want to paint your opponent as an extremist of one ilk or the other. For the Democrats, the goal is to show that your Republican counterpart is far right ideologically. For the Republicans, the reverse is again true; Make clear to voters that the Democrat as an "ultra liberal" or radical.

We are at the precipice of the middle game now. With all appearances pointing towards Obama as the Democratic candidate, the painting of Obama as leftist, radical or extremist has begun. In this part of the game, the portrayal will not be subtle. There will be a strong push to frame the nature of the debate about Obama. However, the Republicans will still try to hold back on what they think would be a knockout punch until the end game, where it will do the most damage.

The first step will be to portray Obama as an “out of touch” elitist. Much has been made about Obama’s comments with respect to “bitterness” in small town America:

“And it's not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations."

Much will continue to be made. The remarks will be repeated again and again in attempt to show Obama as unable to relate to the cultural realities of blue-collar America. This elitist picture will be tied to the same portrayal of the Democratic Party as controlled by liberal elites who are far removed from the everyday lives of the average American.

Raised by a single mother and by his grandparents, Obama is hardly to the manor born, so it would seem absurd to call him elitist, but he’s Ivy League educated and his blessed with a suave patrician style that will be used against him. Somehow we’ve reached a point in American history where having a quality education makes one suspect of all sorts of things. As ridiculous as that is, it appears to be true. (This entire line of attack by the Republicans will also conveniently overlook the fact that McCain is a Naval Academy grad, the son and grandson of an admiral in the U.S. Navy, and also the husband of an extremely wealthy heiress.)

The second tactic will be for the Republicans to play the race card and paint Obama as a race radical due to his personal associations.

Even though Senator Obama has left the Trinity United Church of Christ, the 20-year relationship he had with his church will be used in any way that the Republicans can in order to discredit the notion of him as a man that transcends race. The many videos of Rev. Wright's inflammatory comments and Rev. Wright's own associations are now part of the public record. The recent video of Father Pfleger's comments as a guest pastor at Trinity in which he attacks Hillary Clinton with respect to race (as well as the fact that Pfleger was a spiritual advisor to the Obama campaign) do not help.

Obama's associations with his pastor, Reverend Wright, and his church, Trinity United Church of Christ, have been known for months, if not years, by the media. He mentions his relationships with them in both his books, Dreams of My Father (1995) and The Audacity of Hope (2005). In fact, the title of Audacity of Hope comes from a sermon delivered by Reverend Wright.

The ideologies and teachings of Rev. Wright, therefore, have been public knowledge for years. Obama's ascendancy in 2004 should have called attention to them, yet they did not. Running for the most powerful job in the world, president of the United States, should have made his religious affiliation inescapable, but somehow the press-- and, most glaringly, the right-wing pundits-- were silent for months.

That is until Obama had secured a mathematical certainty of a popular delegate lead in the month of February. Suddenly, with control of the primaries seemingly in hand, this candidate who had been universally praised for his political moderation was "suddenly" discovered to have "radical" skeletons in his closet. Skeletons that had been in plain view for years.

Now Sen. Obama was being tainted by the brush of his associations. While no one in the media will contend that Sen. Obama shares his pastors extremist views, by making those views public, they raise questions in voters minds which naturally begin to cloud Sen. Obama's image to centrist voters in the country's heartland.

Their final move during this middle phase will be to paint Obama's political positions as "liberal" or "leftist" (which are good things to me) in order to continue to shade his image as an extremist. He'll be attacked for his positions on gay marriage, abortion, social programs and withdrawal from Iraq.

Nothing spectacular, but that's not the point in this part of the game. The point is to gain position, not capture the king... yet.

THE END GAME

“If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.”

-- Niccolo Machiavelli

Finally, in the end game, you must be merciless. You must eliminate any obstacles to your capture of the opponent’s king. This is the heated time between the convention and the general election when, in the end, you hope to finish as the last king standing.

The most brutal attacks come at this point because the public typically has a short memory. Should you use your toughest assault too early in the election cycle and the controversy may be forgotten or your opponent may have time to repair the damage or counter. Waiting till the end has the strongest effect.

Toward the November election, these are the hard attacks that Obama will face:

1. The Extremist: Middle East Connections.

a. Rezko: Exploiting Anti-Arab Bias—Sen. Obama had a long-time relationship with Chicago political operative Tony Rezko. Mr. Rezko has just been convicted on charges of corruption. While this alone will taint Sen. Obama due to his association with him, Rezko has connections with somewhat shady characters from the Middle East. Nadhmi Auchi, is an Iraqi billionaire who provided Rezko with $3.5 million as a loan, which ultimately caused Rezko to lose his bail bond for the fraud charges. The key aspect of this relationship is that Auchi was also the beneficiary of a lucrative power plant deal in postwar Iraq. Questions have arisen as to how he obtained that deal. Those questions may ensnare Sen. Obama even though there is no reason to believe he has that much of a connection to Mr. Auchi. Given scare tactics and whisper campaigns about Sen. Obama being a Muslin, this connection is bound to be used against him eventually.

b. Israel-- Though Sen. Obama's recent statements have made clear his support of Israel, look for questions about his ties to advisors who have not been considered steadfast in their support of Israel. Such names to keep in mind are Robert Malley, a Middle East scholar who is of Syrian ancestry and who is considered pro-Palestinian; the ubiquitous Rev. Wright, whose church web site contained some views considered anti-Israel; and George Soros, the multibillionaire investor whom some have painted as anti-Israeli.

c. Osama/Obama-- This oldie-but-goodie is bound to return if Obama is the Democratic candidate for president. Mind you, it will never be stated overtly. Oh, no. There will just be an unusual number of "slips of the tongue" that begin to be made in order to subtly remind people of the similarity in names.

Also, Osama is always good for a well-timed video of some sort. Considering it's been nearly seven years since 9-11 and President Bush still hasn't been able to find him for some reason, I imagine Osama has had enough time to build a whole video studio. It wouldn't be a surprise if we see some "supportive" video about Obama released by Osama. Something about how good it would be to have a "Muslim" in the White House, or nonsense of that sort.

2. National Security: An "October Surprise"-- If all else fails, we can always look forward to some "October Surprise" threat to our national security in the form of an Osama video, al-Qaeda warning, conflict in Iraq or with Iran-- you know, the usual scare to remind us how we need a "strong, macho" man like McCain.

3. The Black Militant: Skeletons in the Closet— The specter of Rev. Wright, Father Pfleger and Trinity Church will be resurrected again and again. More whisper campaigns will be started about other extremist writings or speeches by those connected with Sen. Obama, perhaps even something about his wife Michelle.

EPILOGUE

Just because the Republicans will attack, does not mean it will be successful. One thing we've seen is that Barack Obama is possessed of singular political gifts and has shown the tenacity and willingness to fight back.

Obama has charm and oratorical gifts that are powerful weapons. He can disarm even the most potent attacks with an easy-going response or an extraordinary speech. He also has developed a reputation as a straightforward operator whom the public takes at his word. In addition he has assembled an amazing campaign team that responds quickly to potential problems. Lastly, he is blessed with supporters that can only be described as "devoted" and who have made clear that they will make their voices heard in response to any attack on their candidate.

He has the tools to fight back, for no matter how great the strategy, there's always a counter.

FABLE: THE SULTAN AND THE WELL

It was late at night and stars filled the sky's canopy. Little Cristo had come to hear a story from his papa. I laughed and told him I had a tale just for him, for right now, for the times in which we exist.

THE WELL OF MADNESS

A Fable

"'Anā 'azunn innahu majnūn."

--"I think he is mad."

Many worlds ago, in a desert kingdom far across the sands, an old sultan sat silently in the shadows of his throne room. He was a virtuous and wise man and though he now was old and his beard white as lamb's wool, in his younger days, he had slain many foes and brought countless caliphs to his feet. Back then, when his beard was dark, he rode a glorious red steed into battle, his golden armor and silver sword gleaming in the sun and the banner of his kingdom waving behind him in the wind. He built an empire. No man could challenge him and no land could withstand his will.

Yet mercy and wisdom were the qualities in him that his people loved most. His mosques were righteous, his schools renowned, and his courts of law were just.

Painters and poets flourished under his reign. The great Hakim Ibn Ferhat wrote lyrics of love that every maiden knew by heart. Fahim Al-Adib painted patterns so rich and colorful that upon seeing them a man's dreams would be changed and shaped forever. The finest music for a thousand kingdoms was heard day and night in the city’s streets. Bands plucked at strings, beat drums and played flutes in rhythms so hypnotic and lush that women and men were inspired to love and be loved.

In the sultan’s palace, astrologers charted the heavens, looking skyward for divination and explanation, doctors healed the sick with the latest cures and mathematicians unlocked riddles of calculations with their theorems.

Those were the golden days.

Now the empire had faded and his conquests were only memories and the old sultan sat pensively in the cool shade of his darkened chamber and looked over the city he had ruled so long. As the sharp waves of the desert light rolled across his kingdom, he could see its towers and minarets reflected as they rose above the ivory walls that guarded them, their majesty twisting and angling towards the sky in even rows like trees, their tops encrusted in ruby, sapphire and pearl. Beneath them the city's streets wound in an endless labyrinth of shops and taverns, galleries and homes.

His kingdom was sick now. The citizens had been afflicted by a form of madness that seemed without cure.

It had started with the siege.

Djall, the Evil One, had encircled the city in the white robes of his armies. He knew that the old sultan was vulnerable now, that the time had arrived when he could to take the sultan’s empire out from under him as a rug from a sleeping peasant. Djall, silver-tongued and seductive, had assembled his vast armies around the city's walls. Charismatic Djall, who had been so close to the old sultan when he served as his trusted general, waited now outside the gates for the old man to be felled from within.

The gates of the city were locked and the army assembled at its walls. The sultan’s masterful archers stood sentinel atop them his cavalry rode near the gates. His knights polished their swords. The sultan would not give in.

At first the siege was well withstood. The people were content and confident and the sultan was secure. Then the young began to drink from the "Well of Awareness." Before he had left in dispute, Djall had gifted the city with a well the he called "a symbol of his peaceful intentions." He had made an impassioned plea for those to sip from it should ever there be conflict between him and his former brethren of the city.

As the siege began, the young, filled with daring that only the young can feel, and a desire for change that only innocence can inspire, tasted of the well. At first, they felt as always and their desire for experiences new seemed lost. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, they felt it. They began to laugh, softly, slowly, like a giggle, than the laughter became louder, more raucous, like a guffaw. They began to dance, whirling and spinning. Some began to speak in strange tongues, chanting and screaming while they danced and laughed. Then the demands came forth from them. "Open the gates! Let in Djall!" they yelled. They chanted his name and gave testimony to his brilliance. They called on the old sultan to lay down his arms and his old ways. "It's a new age! Believe! Believe!" they cried.

They rushed madly towards the entrance of the city, but the soldiers stopped them. They threatened violence, but the soldiers were restrained. They attacked the warriors, screaming and clawing and throwing blows. The soldiers raised their swords to frighten them, but the young laughed and mocked them. They ran off shouting, "The sultan will not open the gates! He has lost his mind! 'Anā 'azunn innahu majnūn!"

The sight of them startled all. Artists, poets and musicians took note. "What manner of passion has seized our young?" they asked. Someone told them of the well and the strange reactions the young had had to it. Like all artists, they became curious and wanted to taste the experience. A new way of seeing the world was perhaps to be had.

So they drank of it.

Their reaction differed from the young. They felt the changes immediately, perhaps because the sensibilities of the artist are more keen, more open. The colors of the world around them became brighter, sounds clearer. Then colors changed and sounds transformed. They began to "see" the color of notes and "hear" the melody of color. They'd felt nothing like it before.

"Truly Djall is wondrous!" they shouted, "His thoughts are inside us!" Now they too began to clamor to let him inside the gates. "Let him in, Old Sultan!" they laughed, "Of what are you afraid?" They began to dance and the young came out to join them.

"'Anā 'azunn innahu majnūn," they chanted, "The king is mad! The king is mad! He cannot see the truth!"

Now the scribes, the town criers who spread the news of the city, gathered around in wonder. “Have they lost all reason,” they thought, “What has become of them?” They asked questions of the artists and the young and heard stories of a new way to see the world. All was beautiful and different now and all thanks to Djall and his well, they were told. The more they asked, the more curious they became.

So they too drank of the well.

And then the scribes were affected. They felt passion and outrage and empathy. They saw what the young and the artists had seen and they fumed that the old sultan could not see it as well. "You are a tyrant, Old Sultan!" they yelled. "Throw open the gates! You enslave us!"

And they wrote on parchment and shouted through the city, "'Anā 'azunn innahu majnūn!"

And so it continued. Next the scientists, then counselors and advisors, then the soldiers.

Only the wise old sultan had not drunk from the well.

The old sultan watched as the madness engulfed his once glittering city. Within him still was the young man whose brave heart had struck fear into the bones of his rivals. He stood up on frail legs and grabbed his sword and shield, both faded with time, and he walked down the many stairs in his palace, down into the fabled city he had built through the sheer force of his will, and faced his own people at this delicate hour.

Outside his palace a crowd awaited him. They were dancing and yelling in a wild frenzy and their blood was heated for something to be done by the old sultan.

He waded into them and spoke.

"Blessed be Allah, the compassionate, the merciful!" he began, "All greetings, blessings and good acts are from You, my Lord. Greetings to you, O Prophet, and the mercy and blessings of Allah. Peace be unto us, and unto the righteous servants of Allah. I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah. And I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger."

The crowd grumbled. This was not what they wanted to hear. "Throw open the gates, you old fool!" someone in the crowd shouted. The hundreds that had gathered began to laugh roundly.

The wise old sultan was not fazed. He walked toward the offending man and struck him. Even in old age his hand was powerful and the man fell to the floor. The crowd became enraged and pushed towards him, but the old sultan lifted his sword and they scattered back. His cool eyes focused, he turned towards the well. The crowd parted for him as he walked to it.

When he reached the well, he grabbed the metal cup which sat atop it, bent over and dipped the cup in the well. His head disappeared below the walls of the well and when it could be seen again, the old sultan was smiling. He began to sing an old melody, and lifting his old legs, he began to dance, slowly at first, then wildly. He sputtered and chanted and cried out with glee, "The colors! The colors! How glorious the new colors of my kingdom!"

The crowd roared with approval.

Then the king said, "Wondrous is this well of Djall! How magnificent the taste of its water! It is time. Let the gates be opened."

The crowd screamed with joy, "Our sultan has returned! He has come to his senses! Blessed are we! Blessed is Djall!"

And so the soldiers removed the barriers and locks from the large emerald and gold doors by which one entered the city. The delicate geometric patterns and shapes the artisans had etched into it flittered in the light. The doors swung wide with a mighty groan and a bright light from the desert outside flooded the city.

Through the light, appearing like a specter, came Djall. His enormous grey steed, 22 hands high, snorted through its nostrils and its glowing red eyes smoldered. Djall, his face covered almost entirely in his white robes, smiled.

Djall spoke mellifluously in his booming voice, "Old Sultan, thou hast been wise in thy choice. The time for change hath come. Let not the old and the doubtful be a barrier unto it. Let not thy doubts halt what must be, for as each eye canst see, thy people hath felt the stirrings inside with which I hath filled them. Showeth unto them what thou hast within you now. Kneel unto me and be my footstool, that I may come down from my steed and unto this land and walk toward thy palace from whence the change of Djall will completeth itself.

And so the old sultan walked towards him and knelt before Djall's horse. "We welcome you, O Djall, back into our kingdom, which verily now, shall be yours" said the sultan, "Let you have that which is owed to you."

Djall stepped out of his saddle and onto the sultan's back, using him as a step, but as his foot touched the ground, the old sultan raised his sword and thrust it through Djall's belly.

The crowd screamed in horror.

Djall fell to the ground clutching his stomach. He let forth a growl of animal terror. The citizens, drunk with lunacy, became furious at the old sultan and grabbed. They tore at his robes and beat upon him, knocking him to the ground.

Then time froze and the world was still. The Eternal shifted the scales of fate.

With each moment bold Djall moved towards death, with each breath he lost, the madness of the crowd began to diminish. Their madness seemed to wither till, finally, as Djall groaned his last, the crowd awakened from their wildness as if from slumber.

Outside the walls, Djall’s rows of soldiers lay dead in their saddles, their horses wandered aimlessly across the. Inside, the citizen looked at each other with groggy wonder.

"What have we done?" they asked themselves. A few looked down and saw their great and battered sultan beaten on the ground, the life gone from his proud face, his sword and shield still in hand. Then they knew. Like visions from a hazy dream they remembered sins and what had driven them. They wailed and gnashed their teeth, "Allah, forgive us our wickedness!"

They lifted their sultan gently as if he were a newborn child, and they carried him to his palace. Then they prepared him for his final rest. The young sang songs to him, the artists celebrated him, the scribes shouted of his deeds.

This tale would be preserved for all time that all may know and learn.

And so endeth the tale.

Allah be praised.

ANIMALS

I saw them verywhere in the city the past two days. The animals. Some were dead on the road, some were slinking across streets beneath cars in the night. I live in a city, a real, live, teeming city full of concrete and buses and places of pleasure, yet there were wild animals at every turn.

Hawks dived down towards windows, possums lay dead in the road, skunks sprayed the night, feral cats prowled like panthers and the crows were flying in packs.

They were out and they were everywhere and something deep in my soul tells me that it's a sign of something and of something that's not quite right. Don't ask me what it is because I don't know yet. I just feel it inside.

We live in interesting times, to paraphrase the Chinese expression. Things have been turned on their head in the world and people around me seem content to lose themselves in some fantasy moment of bliss, telling themselves that there is some magic or magic man that will make it right. And they keep on living as they have, spending and playing as if the illusion were not an illusion and the good times had no price.

The angels have started to fall and the ground beneath us is starting to rumble. That sounds crazy, but I believe it. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I'm just not in a good mood. Maybe this whole thing will pass...

But there's the animals, untamed, unleashed. Nature has gone wild. Just before I sat at my desk to write this, I saw a brutal sight. I watched a crow swoop down and kill a sparrow. Like an arrow he flew into his prey, bit into the sparrow's flesh, feathers floated around him like lost souls.

As I turned from the scene, a possum crawled out from a sewer. His mouth was bloody from the remains of what he'd just eaten.

I need to talk to my little Cristo.

THE NOTE

Someone had tried to kill me and I had a pretty good idea who it was. I could still smell the blood on me and I wasn’t going to let it happen again.

It wasn’t the end and it wasn’t the beginning. It was only that moment where you know that the way has revealed itself and the key was to figure out how to make it play out like you wanted. It was pretty simple, I figured. Things had to be shed quickly and humbly. It was the only way I would ever be able to settle the score and get away for good.

I had seen the answer in my dreams. Waves of numbers flowing as a river on curves of a woman’s flesh. Her robes had slipped away in the twilight and the symbols were tattooed upon her. Numbers don’t lie, but sometimes their solutions transcend the mathematics. I knew what had to be done.

Surrender and attack. Walk away from it all, like from a burning wreck on an empty road, and head into the night. Surrender the past, but not the fight. Never surrender the fight.

So I worked fast. I grabbed what mattered most: family photos, pictures of Cristo, my writing, my sketches and my guitar. Done. I left that apartment forever. I got into my new car and I told myself that I would play it better this time, that I was beginning to understand, that I would win.

All I left at my place was a simple message:

“Jack the Knave. That’s your name, right? I know you’re gunning for me. You work for the Beast of Seven and Ten, Cappo di tutti cappi, pez gordo, The Man. He gives you dominion. Yeah, I found you out and you don’t like it. I saw what you’re all about behind the smiles and sweet words and I called you out. Now you want me gone.

What I love, you try to kill. My faith you try to destroy. You took my child, you took my ride and you took my pride. You’ve shut me out so far, but the game's not over yet. There's still a few innings left.

And just remember, I have this against you: I’ve got your numbers. I know their meaning. When I roll the dice, I won’t lose, you will. The Angels of Probability ride with me.

I’ll see you at the tables, Jack. I’ll have a pocketful of gold and faith and fortune at my side.”

I didn’t have a clue about the numbers yet, but I knew the bluff would hold him for awhile. I also prayed a good long time. May God grant that the Angels of Probability be with me. Let the games begin.

THE RITE OF SPRING

Baseball is like family.

It is my father telling me stories from his childhood about Mel Ott and Lou Gehrig, stories from when he was a young man, of the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants and New York Yankees and their timeless trinity of transcendence, of now, of new heroes and hope.

It is my mother calling me whenever the Yankees and Mets are in the playoffs, praying with me for them to win, nervous and cheerful a continent away but near as if sitting there watching the game with me.

Baseball is my brothers and sisters and the seasons we've shared in different decades with different lineups of moments frozen in the mind as the once were, transporting in time to be as we were then, eternally in spring, joyful in autumn.

Baseball is my nephews and nieces playing in leagues, rooting them on, watching them grow, watching their joy, knowing that these new baseball moments will be old baseball moments, their frozen moments, things they will tell their children's children when we are grey or gone.

Baseball is me, a child again, bat in hand, hope in soul and dreams in heart, reborn each year, each spring when the grass smells new and the days grow long and bright and warm and my friends and I are kids again, playing in a schoolyard or a park, checking scores and reading stats, dreaming always and hoping, knowing, that in baseball the clock cannot stop you and that there's always a chance for the epic to occur for stories to be told to those yet born.

A LADY JOKER AND THE QUEEN OF DIAMONDS

My little run in with Jack Knave's crowd had given me the creeps. I parked my car out in front of the casino and went in for a good, stiff drink. Sambuca was the choice of the evening.

I sat down at a Pai Gow poker table. There was an old dealer there who said his name was Qian and that he came from Hong Kong. He was a long way from home. He almost seemed out of place at the table. He was so serene and smiling, he looked more like he belonged in a monastery. There was no one else at the table, which suited me just fine. We played a few hands and mostly it was a push-- a draw between me and the house.

Anyway, I began to drink more and we began to talk. He was affable. I told him about my night and the run-in with Jack Knave and his gang. He told me about the I Ching. I knew of it. I asked if it could help me with my luck. He looked around conspiratorially, then pulled three strange coins from his pocket. He continued to deal the cards in the empty casino and while I looked and the hand I'd been dealt he would shake the coins again and again and throw them on the table.

Finally, he stopped and told me:

"The I Ching tells of change. Change is the nature of all. The number has come to you. Do you believe in numbers, my friend?"

I smiled, "I live for them."

"Your number is 36. "The Darkening of the Light." The ancient writing says that `He enters the left belly of the darkness. He sees the true nature and understands that which is obtainable and that which must be avoided.' Learn from this, friend. The I Ching tells your destiny. Change is upon you—perhaps, sooner than you think."

Out of the ether two women appeared and joined me at the table, flanking me on each side. They were pretty and they were friendly and I could do with being around both right at that moment.

Qian smiled at me and never said another word to me the rest of the night.

With women for me attraction has always been about the unconscious, the transcendent spirit that flows through everything. It's a vibe and when I tap into that vibe the corporeal feminine manifests itself. Now here they were, materialized from the currents in the air.

The cool, sharp one was called "Diamante." She was dressed conservative and classy. Her hair was short and slicked back. The fiery, laughing one was called "Fortuna." She had her hair dyed some wild color and her clothing was a little outlandish.

Fortuna spoke first.

"There must be some kind of way out of here," she said.

"Said a joker to the thief," I answered dryly.

"You know the day destroys the night," said Diamant.

"And night divides the day," I answered her, “You ladies go around quoting rock lyrics to every guy you meet?

They looked at each other and smiled, then Diamant said, "He's the one."

We all became friends fast and fast friends. The alcohol helped with that. Diamant carried herself with an aristocratic hauteur. She had sharp insight and a sharp wit. It was all about reason and calculation and she played cards that way. Fortuna was loud and playful. She told joked constantly and took risks with cards. They were quite a team. I wasn’t sure if they were genuine or trying to roll me.

I started to win a lot of money. I decided to play the king of hearts and suggested we go somewhere else to spend it and have some fun. They liked that idea.

Three-sheets to the wind we stepped out into the thick night air to start an adventure. We found one, but it was a little different than we expected.

Then I saw it. My truck was on fire.

Now you can look at anything in a positive or negative light. Normally, my car being on fire would be something purely negative, but flanked by a lady joker and a would-be queen of diamonds as I watched the flames rise into the night, I thought of mythology: The Phoenix. From the ashes of my car something dangerous and new was about to arise in my life, something which would lead to my destiny and my fortune.

That's what I kept telling myself anyway.

"Looks like we’ll have to walk," said Fortuna.

“Yeah,” I answered, “A joker, the Queen of Diamonds and the King of Hearts. We could start a new religion or create our own revolution.”

Obviously, we had had a bit to drink.

But then that the night got really interesting.

JACK KNAVE - MAN OF THE PEOPLE... SO HE SAYS

If you wanna know where all this madness in Syren Sea began for me, how I got to where I am, then we have to go back a little bit. I need to tell you about a charismatic slickster called Jack Knave who runs with a guy known as The Beast of Seven and Ten. Jack is a self-styled revolutionary with a lot of starry-eyed followers who'd kill their firstborn for him. The Beast of Seven and Ten… well, let’s just say he has more power than you could imagine and lives in the shadows.

It was about a year ago. I was laying languidly in my apartment. It was hotter than fresh-made sin outside. Summer was coming. I could feel it. I stayed inside until the night cooled the air, then I went out in search of answers to questions that kept whispering to me from my soul.

It might be a sea-sized oasis, but Syren Sea is still a desert city. And the desert is a strange creature. It's a alive; trust me. It's no different than a cobra or a bird. It's a being. It breathes and it thinks and it looks at we little humans as strange germs crawling around on its skin. If you weren’t born in a desert, you never really get used to it what it's like living in one unless you're three feet long to the tail and have green skin and scales-- even then it burns your rear. It's the way that oven heat blasts you, knocks you in the face like a hard slap, the way your eyes sting from the dust and your tongue gets dry.

So when it finally cooled down, I went out looking for the Angels of Probability. They were the only ones who’d have the answers. They’re my guardians; they point to the directions available and the options therein. And there was only one place to find them. The Syren Sea Racetrack.

The old racetrack had seen better days. They tried to spruce things up there by adding a casino next to it a few years ago. They could get away with that because part of it was on Tribal grounds, so you saw a lot of people running around who were supposed to be Indian, only they didn’t look too Indian to me.

That night I didn’t play the ponies. I knew that my answers would be found in the sacred calculations hidden in a deck of cards.

As I was driving up, I saw a crowd gathered near the casino. Some guy was on a soap box giving a speech. I would learn that his name was Jack Knave. I pulled my old truck over by the crowd and got out to see what was going on.

Jack was your quintessential modern-day pretty boy, the kind of smooth operator that all the girls fall for and all the boys follow like a messiah. To me he just looked like a prancing, preening little con man—not that I had anything against the guy.

Jack always dressed flashy, sometimes outrageously so. When I saw that day him he was wearing some kind of a cross between a preacher's robes and rock-and-roller's duster.

He was making one of his great speeches for the people. Something about revolution and democracy and rights of man. He was selling utopia and everyone was buying. His silky, Southern pronunciations apparently transfixed the crowd. I guess they thought he was a regular Thomas Paine—not that he had an ounce of ol' Tom's integrity.

I listened and analyzed, but I didn't hear anything real in his words other than sounds.

When his speech was finished, his followers applauded wildly. I stood silent.

He made his way through the crowd and he caught sight of me. I wasn’t reacting like his zombie followers. Charmers don’t like that. Most charmers want everyone to fall for them, and when you don't, their mask comes off and their inner beast shows.

"You ready to join, brother?" he asked me.

"Not ready to join and I'm not your brother," I answered.

He flashed a wan smile. "Well, we're all brothers. Why don't you take some of my literature and think on it? We have an office right here by the casino. Go on in. We'll see if we can't get you to come around. Our movement is about bringing a form of government that offers a fresh political rebirth to each and every one of us. What I speak about is bigger than just me. We can make a difference through what we teach and try. We can have a form of government that gives us all liberty again-- all of us together through this movement."

"No thanks, pal. I like thinking for myself. I'll pass," I answered.

I guess no one had talked to His Holiness like that before. His minions were aghast and began to gather around. I had to be on guard. It wasn't that I thought I couldn't handle his gang of prep school followers one-on-one, but the crazy look in their eyes and their numbers made me play it cool and careful. These people were plain creepy.

I started back toward my car, but me being me, I couldn't resist telling him and his zombie disciples what-for.

"I don't like being crowded, kids. And I don't like people trying to put the squeeze on me, but let me just tell you this, something a wise man wrote a couple of centuries ago: `Liberty is not in any form of government, it's in the heart of free man. He carries it with him everywhere.' And this free man is going to go his own way. Thanks. Now, twenty-three skiddoo, teenyboppers. I need to get to my car."

"This your car, huh?" One of the kiddies asked.

"What's it to ya?" I answered.

"You'll see... what it is to you," Jack answered cryptically and smiled.

I gave him a long, cold look and got back to my car. He and his cult followers departed for their headquarters. I drove the next few blocks to the casino. I needed to find those Angels. It wouldn't take long.

A CALL TO ARMS IN THE AGE OF CHAOS

I will win the night and rule the dawn

And be the hero of my creation

And raise the banners of my invention

Come whomever and come whom may

I walk on my own.

I no longer hoped to be followed or led

In an age of deception, riddled with delusion, led,

the child of truth becomes an orphan at the dawn

The ones who will lead you are the ones to deceive your own

And the power of charm wields the yoke of hatred's creation

You can dance and chant however you may

For the seeds of deceit were your own invention.

I looked to my left for armies of angels' invention

I looked to my right for the help that the darkness led

But the angels had fallen, blizzards of feathers in May

And the darkness swallowed its forces in fear with the dawn

So I chose the present to make the future my creation

And make the destiny I wish my own

This fight is within you and about you; a battle your own

No political sorcerers will have an invention

No journalistic magi can forge a creation

That will guide you to a promised land, mystically led

As the world spins and revolves, dusk till dawn

Only you will make it what you may

Better to beg forgiveness than plead, "If I may?"

You may have hocked it, but your soul is still your own

Now what will you do at this breaking of the dawn?

Get high on a placebo of your invention?

Hope for change from a sorcerer by whom you'll be led?

Or make real change your inner and outer creation?

Go to it yourself and be that creation

Fight aside whatever dark forces you may

Tell they who rule information you shall not be led

Tell they who rule government that freedom is your own

Let the world know that liberty is each person's invention

And usher in the real age of democracy's dawn

We walk to battle, not led, spirit's new creation

We smile at the dawn, happy few who fight as they may

We chose on our own and the future will hail our invention