Tricky Dick, Slick Willy, and Bad Bush

When I saw the trailer for Frost/Nixon, and Frank Langella as Nixon says, “I’m saying when the president does it, it’s not illegal.” I was shocked and disturbed. But by the time the line came up in the movie—after watching Langella for an hour and a half as Nixon—I thought, “Yeah, that seems about right. I agree with that.”

I’m 26 years old. My presidential experience has been Clinton and Bush. That’s been my life for the last 16 years. Aside from being vaguely aware of the first Iraq war and Bush, Sr. as the figure that took us there, Clinton and Bush are all I know. Reagan exists in my knowledge of him, but not in my memory. What my personal experience is comprised of is one man known for getting B.J.s in the Oval Office, and another that led us into a war on disputable evidence. More importantly, as he leaves office, we’re coming up on six years in two wars.

Clinton was impeached. Bush should at least be investigated. Eight years after high school and American History I know or remember very little about Nixon. So watching the movie and relearning what he did, I kept waiting to find out something else. He broke into the DNC headquarters. Is that it?

One of the film’s characters, James Reston Jr., has a line about how anti-democratic Nixon’s actions were. He tried to get a leg up in an election, tried to learn the Democrats’ strategy. It’s not like he bent the vote. He didn’t make up ballots, or discount ballots. What he did was unethical, but it doesn’t raise my eyebrows. I don’t relate to this response—that was prevalent at the time and is still felt by many today—of feeling personally insulted by Nixon’s supposed blatant disregard for democracy. Older generations—like my parents'—experienced Nixon first, and then, years later, Clinton and Bush. It didn't happen that way for me. I learned about Nixon in history class while I was experiencing Clinton (and Bush) firsthand. If it's 1977, and there’s no Mr. BJ or Mr. Decider to compare Nixon to, I can see how one could become offended by Nixon’s actions. But my knowledge of Nixon came after my experiencing Clinton
and Bush everyday in newspapers and on TV.

And Kennedy—I didn’t experience him as a refreshing contrast to Eisenhower who might revive the spirit of the country, but through the few repeated images that are thrown up in every television piece of him and are always alongside pictures of Marilyn Monroe or candid photos of him lounging poolside with various other women. And there’s always that undercurrent that something bad is about to happen. The sense of happy-go-lucky snapshots leading to trouble.

So it’s hard to see Nixon as betraying the legacy—and the Golden era—of the Presidency. Because I didn’t see Kennedy as being all that great before him. And what came after Nixon was so much worse. Nixon’s actions were neither unique to a President, nor were they the best example of a President abusing power. Andrew Jackson still bears that title, having massacred hundreds of thousands of Native-Americans by presidential order. Even in recent history—in my life—Nixon’s actions do not stand out in comparison to Clinton and Bush. I know most Democrats dismiss what Clinton did, saying it didn’t affect how he governed. But I find him getting a blow job in the Oval Office to be a greater mockery of the office of President than anything Nixon ever did. And Bush? I don’t understand how a person today could get worked up over Nixon saying, “I’m saying when the president does it, it’s not illegal.” when more recently, a President has said, “I’m the decider.” More people balked at the poor grammar in that sentence than at the idea behind it.

Maverick-y Seasonal Affective Disorder

I’m having trouble writing mostly because I feel like I have nothing to say. I mean, there are other problems. I’m not disciplined, I procrastinate, I look for any excuse not to work and then I devote my time to legitimating the excuse I’ve come up with. It’s a sad pattern, greatly exacerbated in winter. You know, when it’s grey outside and you can’t tell whether it’s dusk or that’s just the day. 8am looks the same as 4pm. We’re too hard on Sarah Palin. The cold and lack of light does things to a person. If I had to spend a winter up there, you’d have difficulty diagramming my sentences too. Hell, I’m surprised she’s not catatonic.

My seasonal affective disorder is pretty predictable. It’s like a menstrual cycle: let’s see, it’s been three weeks since I last saw sunshine, so I should be getting depressed by Tuesday morning. Usually, it hits February 20th and stays till around, oh, March 20th. In December, winter is this quaint little idea—a novelty that makes Christmas feel authentic. In January, there’s my birthday to look forward to. And Valentine’s Day is cool because my boyfriend and I make each other something. But after Valentine’s Day, there’s nothing to look forward to. It becomes just a matter of waiting out the rest of winter. And in the northeast, winter doesn’t end till mid-April. You’ll get a warm day here and there at the end of March, beginning of April. But it’s just a tease, meant to sink you back into the depression it took you weeks to shake.

I don’t know what it is but this year my seasonal affective disorder has hit early. And just like a menstrual cycle that shouldn’t be due yet, I am bitter. I’m thinking, “Hey! You’re not supposed to come for another four days!” Or month. Nevertheless, it’s raining on my parade.

It’s tough enough when it hits mid-February and there’s two months left of winter to wait out. But to have it happen now—to have to wait out three months—I may just come out of it saying, “You betcha!”

Destination: chocolate?

If you’re going to name your place Destination: Chocolate, you better know what you’re doing. First, you better know chocolate. Second, you better be able to execute it (and by that I mean not just know chocolate in theory, but be able to translate that knowledge and turn out an incredible bonbon). If you’re not going to do that—call your place something else. That’s my biggest beef with Destination: Chocolate in Newport. Not that they turn out mediocre chocolates, but that they profess their chocolates are so great.

What’s the old saying? Under-promise, over-deliver. If you under-deliver, you’re going to hurt your business more then the mediocre product alone would have. For example: a restaurant offers a crème brûlée on the dessert menu. You order it; it’s a decent crème brûlée. Not the best you’ve had, but certainly not the worst. Suppose the restaurant offers the best crème brûlée ever. If they serve you a “C” crème brûlée, that “C” is going to stand out more in comparison to the “A” standard they set up. It’s a failure by comparison.

The name is what initially drew me in. Just as if some restaurant had bragged “Oh, we have the best crème brûlée,” it dared me to try it. Now, I should stop for a moment and tell you I take chocolate seriously. Especially when it comes at $24 for a box of twelve. Or $10 for a box of four.

Destination: Chocolate has the look of a gourmet chocolate shop. Chocolate confections pour out of antique-looking medicine cabinets; each impeccably wrapped in cellophane and tied with blue ribbon. A butcher’s block style table surrounded by wooden stools looks perfect for a chocolate tasting. The whole place is warm and inviting.

The proprietor greeted me cordially and gave me a brief rundown of her chocolates. She spoke so authoritatively on the subject I almost missed the fact that she doesn’t make the bonbons herself. They’re made fresh, with local ingredients. But by someone else. Somewhere else.

Once home, I sit down on the couch, tucking my legs underneath me. I pulled out my box, excited to finally eat my prettily-painted chocolates. The first—alright, not the best espresso I’ve ever had. But let’s try the passion fruit. The proprietor said her passion fruit bonbon was very good so I’m enthusiastic. But it’s not quite right. The balance isn’t there and it ends up being somewhat sour. Next up, the Venezuelan—the store owner’s self-professed signature chocolate. It’s completely bland; I don’t note any of the rich spiciness that I’ve come to associate with Venezuelan chocolate. The box of chocolates goes on like this—successively underwhelming me.

I’m not as disappointed by the fact that the chocolates fell flat, as I am by the unsubstantiated egotism of the store’s name. Garrison Confections in Providence or Golosa in Philadelphia are much more deserving of the title “Destination for Chocolate.”