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Imagine a leader with George Bush’s ability, Mitt Romney’s principles and Bill Clinton’s vices. Yes, he would be an unsurpassed disaster and, at the very least, lose two-thirds of the country. And that is the unique place of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna (1794-1876) in Mexico’s history.

He fancied himself the Napoleon of the West, his self-proclaimed military genius based on a single victory over a diseased Spanish force in 1829. However, the real Napoleon had only one Waterloo; Santa Anna had a series of them. He lost Texas because he never thought that Sam Houston would attack the Mexican army during its siesta. Of course, after that disgrace, Santa Anna fell from power. Yet, he managed to charm and bargain himself back into office by 1847, promising to defend Mexico from the invading Americans. That is how and why Mexico lost the other half of its territory. (His defense of Mexico City was no Alamo.)

Given this record, you’d think that he would have lost face. Actually, he only lost a foot–in 1838, failing to defend Vera Cruz from a French expedition collecting debts. But for 30 years, Santa Anna was unavoidable in Mexican politics. Shifting from liberal to conservative and back again–his only consistency was vanity–Santa Anna won the Presidency 11 times, even though his administrations rarely lasted longer than six months. He must have been in one of his conservative phases during the Gadsden Purchase because it was rumored that he kept most of the money for himself.

The Napoleon of the West did have some conquests with women. (He was good-looking, if the paintings are reasonably accurate; he did live long enough to be photographed–but evidently did not age well.) Unfortunately, his amorous nature proved costly to Mexico. During that famous siesta at the Battle of San Jacinto, Santa Anna’s guard and pants were down. One of his mistresses became a legend of Texas. Her name was Emily West, a beautiful woman of mixed race or–in the colloquial phrase of the time–a “high yellow.” Some say that she was Santa Anna’s distraction at San Jacinto. Whether out of patriotic gratitude or an appreciative lust, the Texans dedicated a song to her.

Now you know the historical basis of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and Santa Anna’s contribution to American music.

This song from “The Alamo” was nominated for an Academy Award. It is a romantic ballad, a wistful evocation of memories: in other words, impending death. At least John Wayne doesn’t serenade Richard Widmark or Chill Wills. Don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t even think about it.

Just click on the gray script to hear the song.

March 6, 1836:  Tin Pan Alamo

This is the anniversary of the fall of the Alamo. Those valiant Texans died fighting for their freedom: specifically the freedom to own slaves. The tyrannical Mexican government sought to abolish that right.

That detail is generally omitted in Hollywood’s account of the battle.  No, historical accuracy can ruin the script and it is certainly less important than a good film score.  Remember “The Alamo” or at least John Wayne’s version.  Wayne produced, directed and starred in the extravaganza, a film that was on a larger scale than the actual battle.  His “Alamo” could be described as a laborious imitation of John Ford, but its redeeming and lasting grace was the excellent music.

The Mexican Army march is superior to anything the Mexicans actually had.  The haunting ballad, “The Green Leaves of Summer” is equally effective for seduction and death.  On an AM radio in 1960, you would have heard the hit single “The Ballad of the Alamo.”  The public thought that it was an old folk song.  Although sung by the popular country star Marty Robbins, the ballad’s lyricist and composer were not quite so down-home.

Lyricist Paul Francis Webster was born in New York City; it is unlikely that the family brownstone was made of sod. He done learned his letters at schoolhouses called Horace Mann and Cornell. No, he probably wasn’t an “ag” major. He did finally go West, if only to pick up three Academy Awards for best songs of the year: “Secret Love”, “Love is a Many Splendored Thing” and “The Shadow of Your Smile.”

Dimitri Tiomkin, the composer of “Ballad of the Alamo”, really was from the West…except that it was in Russia. However, the Ukraine was certainly wild, especially when its cowboys–the Cossacks–got liquored up; they had their own form of rodeos called pogroms. Mr. Tiomkin’s family would have been all-too-familiar with those Cossack celebrations. By the time of Mr. Tiomkin’s birth, in 1894, pogroms had become regulated and required government permission. However, the Tsar never said “nyet.”

Ironically and schizophrenically, the same Tsarist government provided a full scholarship for the young Tiomkin to attend the St. Petersburg Conservatory. “Hey, Jew, we want to burn down your house–and maybe you in it–but we want to encourage your gifted child’s musical career.” The imperial conservatory acquired so many of these Jewish prodigies that the director Alexander Glazunov became philo-Semitic; he would criticize inferior performances as “Gentile.”

Dmitri Tiomkin was raised in this meshuggah society. Despite his status as a pet Jew, he initially favored the Russian Revolution. However, when he saw no hope for any pampering under the Bolsheviks, he migrated. Fortunately, he found in Hollywood an equally meshuggah society. His songs and musical scores won three Academy Awards: for “High Noon”, The High and the Mighty” and “The Old Man and Sea.” He received nominations for 13 other films, including “The Alamo.”

So “The Ballad of the Alamo” really is a paean to America. Where else could an Ivy League New Yorker and a Russian Jewish immigrant pass themselves off as “country-n-western”?

Queen Philippa of England, wife of Edward III, was in a constant state of pregnancy. That was a common situation among 14th century women. What was extraordinary, however, was that she and most of her children survived. This may have been gratifying for Philippa on Mother’s Day, but it also meant six princes and only one throne. This excess of underemployed but ambitious dukes would result in decades of dynastic war and eight Shakespeare plays.

The most conniving of her sons was born this day in 1340, in the city of Ghent. Given the English reluctance to correctly pronounce another language, the prince was known as John of Gaunt. Intelligent and brave, he would have been a promising king; but he was the third son in a healthy family. John had to find other outlets for his energies. Of course, there was always the French to kill. Furthermore, he demonstrated intellectual tendencies that might qualify him as a medieval liberal. At the time, the Catholic Church had become so contorted with politics that it literally had split in two. In the Great Schism (1378-1417), there were two competing Papacies: Rome and Avignon. Many Christians, including John of Gaunt, were so disgusted that they looked elsewhere and found spiritual satisfaction in a reformist movement known as the Lollards. With their emphasis on the Bible and a simplified approach to worship (none of Rome’s theatrical rituals), the Lollards may have been premature Protestants. (When the Church finally ended up the Schism, its first act was to crush the Lollards.) The leader of the Lollards in England, John Wycliffe, had a friend, patron and protector in John of Gaunt.

The Duke, however, still wanted to be King somewhere. He thought that there was a chance of becoming King of Castile. Its ruler, the memorably named Pedro the Cruel, was trying to maintain his throne against an ambitious half-brother. Pedro’s only legitimate heir was his daughter, and guess who decided to become his son-in-law? John’s plan might have worked if only Pedro had won the civil war; John was stuck with a wife whom he disliked. However, he did find solace–no, not in Lollardism–but in the comely governess of his children. In fact, he soon had a family with her, too. (That was his third brood; he had been quite prolific with his first wife Blanche of Lancaster, and reasonably virile with the Spanish princess.)

Although John would never get to be king, he did end up ruling England. Whether it was a disease or the medieval doctors, the Prince of Wales died before ascending the throne. His young son Richard II then succeeded grandpa. Uncle John was only too happy to assist his nephew in governing the kingdom. The Regency proved rather surprising; the Duke had many talents but competence was not among them. He was an abysmal administrator. His misjudgements incited a peasant rebellion that ravaged the country and even seized London. England barely survived John of Gaunt.

But ruling in his own right, Richard proved even more disastrous: he was both unscrupulous and incompetent. Furthermore, he turned out to be conspicuously “artistic.”  The next generation of Plantagenets would not be springing from his loins. He had a number of underemployed cousins (courtesy of the underemployed uncles) who were vying to succeed Richard. Henry, the son of the John of Gaunt, didn’t even bother to wait. He overthrew Richard and established himself as King Henry IV.

If not a king, at least John of Gaunt was the founder of the Lancaster dynasty. In fact, he is also the ancestor of two royal families that are still reigning. King Juan Carlos of Spain is descended from the John’s Castilian marriage. Queen Elizabeth is descended from John’s indiscretions with the governess, but you wouldn’t be rude enough to mention that to her.

If politics make strange bedfellows, imagine what John McCain could contract from Rev. John Hagee. McCain claimed to be delighted by the endorsement of the fundamentalist fulminator Hagee. However, Hagee has a very vociferous history of Anti-Catholicism; he refers to the Church as “The Anti-Christ” and “The Whore of Rome”. He denounces the Church for 800 years of tyranny and depravity. (Why not 1300 years of abominations? Hagee apparently does not recognize the Church-sponsored Gregorian Calendar, so he refuses to recognize any year after 1582.)

As you probably have guessed, Mr. Hagee is not likely to be named The Knights of Columbus’ Man of the Year. The always indignant William Donahue–the Torquemada of the Catholic League–has denounced Hagee as a Hollywood Jew. (Mr. Donahue has a very limited repertoire of stereotypes.) Of course, the Mainstream Media have demonstrated their unusual diligence, demanding to know which side Barak Obama would have preferred in the Crusades. This diversion leaves the McCain campaign the chance to come up with a pleasant explanation for Rev. Hagee’s colorful opinions. I imagine it will be this…

“The Whore of Rome” is really a compliment. Whom would you find more appealing? The Whore of Rome, the Tart of Canterbury, the Trollop of Geneva, or the Real Friendly Waitress of Salt Lake City? Would you want to go to a Methodist orgy? Trust me, you’d only attend a Jewish orgy for the food. If you think that religions are synonymous with brothels, wouldn’t you prefer a bordello decorated by Michelangelo and Raphael? (The Protestant idea of art is Tiffany lamps!) Yes, 800 years may be a little old for a whore, but Italians age well. Who would be your septagenarian fantasy: Sophia Loren or Judy Dench?

So, Rev. Hagee could have been praising the Catholic Church for its extrovert charm. And, if he wasn’t, the Right Reverend is just jealous.

More of the young Eugene’s “blissful humor”. published in the National Review

III. Petrograd: 1917

Aleksandr Kerensky was setting up the chess board when Lenin came into the room. “Lenny, do want the black or white pieces?”

“It doesn’t matter, Al. We’re all pawns, anyway. I suppose you know the Bolsheviks are going to storm the Winter Palace and seize control of Russia.”

“I’ve seen the ads in the newspaper.”

“These theatrics aren’t my idea. John Reed’s the media consultant. He says I can’t get absolute power without absolute publicity. If the French went around singing ‘La Marseillaise,’ we couldn’t disappoint the reporters by not having a song of our own.
“Mind you, not just any revolutionary ditty would do. Reed had to test-market them all. Imagine five hundred peasants and workers being herded into an auditorium to determine whether they prefer ‘The Internationale’, ‘I Got Plenty of Nuttin’,’ or ‘Anything Goes’!
“And we couldn’t let the French get away with a media coup like storming the Bastille. So Reed has chartered a battleship to sail into downtown Petrograd and fire at the Winter Palace. Then ten thousand Bolshevik extras, waving red banners and praising dialectical materialism, will seize the place. Afterward, there’ll be the usual buffet supper and open bar for the press.”

“Sounds exciting, Lenny.”

“Reed’s not satisfied. He says the Bolsheviks lack charisma. I’ve had several memos about getting a toupee. And now Reed’s decided we won’t use real Communists to storm the Winter Palace. It seems that they just don’t convey the innocence and waiflike charm that Reed wants in a proletarian. We’re auditioning actors, instead. Could you have your friend Stanislavsky send over some of his students to topple the government?”

“Sure. It’ll be a nice change of pace from Chekhov.”

“Now, Al, you mustn’t tell your guards a little secret. They probably wouldn’t fire on a bunch of actors, and we need the casualties for the dramatic effect.”

“There’s no one to defend democracy in Russia?”

“Oh, maybe at a cocktail party, but you know how Russian liberals are. All they can do is write novels. Their idea of defense against a Bolshevik onslaught would be to make a sarcastic remark in French.”

“An excuse to drink.”

IV. Moscow: 1920

The disease was either typhus or typhoid. It did not matter to the Russians doctors, since they treated both with leeches. Soon, it did not matter to John Reed either.

Lenin ordered that Reed be given a state funeral, despite Armand Hammer’s advice to sell the body to a medical school. At the ceremony, a 17-gun salute was fired at political prisoners. Trotsky gave so moving a eulogy that Soviet historians now claim that Lenin said it.

“Yes, John Reed is gone,” Trotsky thundered, “but the death of one man cannot stop an idea.”

“Really?” thought Josef Stalin. “I wonder how many deaths it would take.”

For those of you who don’t have a 36 year-old inventory of National Review issues, here is the first part of the satire that Mr. Buckley praised for its “blissful humor.”

I. London: 1913

It was not the best time to crave Chinese food. The restaurant was so crowded that two strangers found themselves forced to share a table. Passing the soy sauce made an introduction inevitable.

“I’m Sigmund Freud.”

“I’m Leon Trotsky.”

Of the the two, Freud was the more awed; he thought the Russian had said Tolstoy. Trotsky was not particularly impressed by the “bourgeois mesmerist” but he tried not to be rude. There was always the chance the doctor would pick up both checks.

“Had any interesting dreams lately?” It was the only way Freud could start a conversation.

Out of courtesy, Trotsky tried feigning an Oedipal complex. Freud was not deceived.

“Young man, I invented that complex and I can tell a psychochondriac from the real thing. Now, what do you really dream?”

“Of a proletarian revolution. It would be your standard Communist affair: dissolution of class distinction, abolition of all personal property, and lots of getting even.”

“You’re a manic-suppressive,” Freud concluded. “You use totalitarianism to overcome your shyness. Back home, I know a young art student with a similar tendency. If you’re ever in Vienna, I’ll try to get you into group therapy with Adolf.”

II. Zurich: 1917

Everyone has a hobby. Lenin’s was collecting the stamps from his rejection letters. The collection had become quite extensive. No country or corporation seemed willing to take Lenin up on his offer:

Dear Comrades,

If you provide me with the money for a revolution, I will rename Petrograd in your honor….

One afternoon, however, Lenin’s cutting, pasting and self-pitying were interrupted by a knock on the door. Awaiting him was a dark, little man who asked, “Do you have any bugs?”

“No, comrade.”

“Then, I’ll have a glass of water, instead. Don’t mind my coming in uninvited; it’s never stopped a German before. I have a message for you. Kaiser Wilhelm thinks that your idea is wonderful. Everyone else thinks that you’re crazy. That’s why they sent me: I’m Franz Kafka.
I’m here to invite you and forty of your closest conspirators to an all-expenses-paid Russian Revolution. Of course, we’d be delighted if you sent us a few postcards but we’d also like the Ukraine, the Baltic states, and all mineral rights in Siberia.”

Lenin did not want to seem petty. After all, what was a million squares to Russia? As a Communist, Lenin had no objection to giving away something that he did not own, but as a lawyer he felt an obligation to haggle. “Comrade Kafka, that seems a little steep.”

“Not compared to what the Japanese would want. Besides, we have no intention of keeping anything. Let me explain. I’m the Kaiser’s accountant and I’m doing his tax return. Now, I’ve already deducted the world war as a loss, but that still leaves him in too high a bracket. If we had all this Russian property, we could return it to you and deduct it as a charitable contribution. We get the write-off, and Russia keeps its land and wealth for whatever ulterior purpose you have in mind.”

“That’s very generous.”

“Call us sentimental, but we feel that someone has to threaten Western civilization, and, if it can’t be Germany, it might as well be you. Have you given much thought to your dictatorship of the proletariat?”

“Not really.”

“Good,” Kafka gloated, “because I have. You ought to create a vast dehumanizing society, where everyone is a prisoner, where you’re put on trial without ever knowing what the crime is.”

“It sounds ideal for Russia’s climate.”

“Here’s a manuscript of my fantasies. I was thinking of it as a novel, but I realize, Herr Lenin, that you could put it to better use as a constitution.”

Now we will never see William F. Buckley on “Celebrity Jeopardy”. We may never again hear so droll and engaging a conservative. William Kristol thinks that he is clever, but Buckley really was.

As we know from the movies, the best villains can be quite charming. I can personally attest to Mr. Buckley’s graciousness. Long ago, I actually had conservative tendencies, at least the perspective of a Cold-Warrior. After seeing “Reds”, Warren Beatty’s romantic escapade that should have been titled “Where the Bolshies Are“, I was inspired to write a satire. I submitted my parody to the National Review; it did seem the appropriate venue for “Reds”-baiting. Six weeks later, I received a letter from the magazine expressing the publisher’s delight with my “blissful humor” and pleasure in publishing my work. That was in 1981, and it was my first publication in a national periodical.

In the intervening decades, although I have had some success as a writer, no one else has ever described my humor as “blissful”; but no one else was William F. Buckley.

Of course, I still have his letter. If that is not a keepsake, what is?

He will be missed.

Fidel Castro would be a hard act to follow, but there were more exciting alternatives than Baby Brother Raoul. Many of us would have liked the Mafia back. Havana certainly could use another Meyer Lansky. The Sunday brunches at the Nacionale Hotel just have not been the same without him. For the last forty-seven years, the specialty of the Hotel’s Commissar Commissary has been green peppers stuffed with beets, served cold.

Of course, the transition from Communism to Coppola might be too abrupt, so Cuba would require an intermediate dictator. Imagine someone with a Stalinoid personality and the morals of a MBA: a psychopathic swindler. Fortunately, Dick Cheney is available. He certainly is wondering what he could do after January, which is probably why he is planning a coup in November. But if that should fail, he might enjoy ruling Cuba. It could be his retirement tyranny. Everything that he has done to the United States, he could repeat there with the added charm of the tropics. Rum-boarding sounds fun!

Once again, Cuba could be a tourist paradise, especially for any indicted members of the Bush adminstration avoiding extradition.

Within the next week or two, Faux News will broadcast a story suggesting that Senator Obama has raised money for his campaign by robbing liquor stores. A video recording will show a suspect who vaguely resembles the Democrat. As Brit Hume will conclude, “If it is not Barack Obama, it most certainly is a relative and political contributor.”

In the meantime, Senator Obama finds himself facing these three accusations.

First, he is a Muslim and we now have the photo to prove it. By now, you likely have that photo of the Senator dressed in a Somali costume when visiting that country. The garb allegedly reveals his true theological loyalties. In fact, I think that it makes him look like Butterfly McQueen. (Clarence Thomas will be so jealous.) That should lull the Right Wing’s fears of Black Men; although he would be even more acceptable if he dressed like Hattie McDaniel.

And, to allay those rumors of him being Muslim, he should start wearing a three-foot crucifix.

Second, he has proved himself unpatriotic by not singing with the national anthem. Of course, no one can sing our national anthem. The Chord Strangled Banner is a voice-straining series of contortions. We really should have an anthem within the human vocal range. After the last seven years, I’d recommend “Anything Goes.” However, if we demand that Obama attempt all forty-eight octaves of the song, he may have to undergo a surgical procedure that was a prerequisite for the Byzantine civil service. The Presidency may be worth the pain of sounding like Chris Matthews.

Third, Obama is unpatriotic because he does not wear an American flag on his lapel. At the risk of needing bigger lapels, Mr. Obama should wear the flags of all fifty states, the decals of major league baseball teams, and the Pillsbury Bake-Off’s winning recipe for apple pie. He should also have a tattoo of Mount Rushmore, with Ronald Reagan’s head included. Of course, all this paraphernalia could lead to a hernia and may be unnecessary. One single image can fully express the Conservative’s loyalty to this country. So Barak Obama should wear on his lapel the Confederate flag.