Is it Noonan or is it Not
by Barry Friedman
I miss Leon
A yearning heart, a breast, a soul desiring affection, attention--and this president continues to disappoint, to sit at the end of the bar, oblivious, with his Molson.
It is so tough to think, to comprehend, to write--so, so tough--to grapple with all the grappling. Mr. Panetta wrote a book; I have written many, too.
But I digress.
His book is a wail, a plea, a breast wanting to burst free into the arms, the lips of someone appreciative. But did this president, this detached man, listen to this Leon? You read his book--you read my books (many of them and they're all good and prescient and oh, so, so, wise)--and you see the pain, the struggle of a patriot who loves his or her country but does not love his or her leader.
Those are the screams, that is what Clarice hears, Mr. Pierce.
The list goes on Ebola, ISIS, the Redskins. When will this man--some say this fine man with a fine intellect, this president, some also say--act?
We all make decisions but this president--and, again, I have trouble finding the right words, the right order of them--seems adverse to making all but the easy ones. Malia can't date; Sasha can't wear make-up.
A nation shrugs its shoulders.
A president must do more--alas, more. Reagan did more. Reagan did more by just a glance, a pose, a smile. This president turns gray. From what? Reagan aged nary a day in eight years. What does that tell you?
And now Hillary, a woman, a scorned wife, a secretary of state tries to seize a mantle that is hidden somewhere--perhaps Hawaii, perhaps in Indonesia, perhaps in the recesses of--this is so tough to say--a beating heart of a man
Only this presidency, this president suffers from atrial fibrillation. The cadence flutters, the blood clots.
It is not--no, it is not, as my detractors would say--that the canaries are screaming. It is that they are silent ... depressed, malaised, hoping for a leader to call them home.
Reagan would call them home. I would call them home. I hear them, even when they are silent, these canaries. These friends.
I weep, yet nobody hears. They, the canaries, hear. When I tell you they weep, silently, dear friends, believe me.
Leon, can you hear me?