At Whit’s End

“Fame can never make us lie down contentedly on a deathbed.”

– Alexander Pope, 1713

On the Monday following the death of pop music diva Whitney Houston, I was approached by a young woman who inquired whether I had heard that Ms. Houston had died.  I replied in the affirmative and, miraculously, somehow managed to refrain from saying something like, “Why are you surprised at the ‘sudden’ death of a person who had abused drugs for decades?”  I am glad that I held my sarcasm in check because the woman then said that the news was so upsetting that “she cried all weekend.”

I was stunned into silence and could only nod.  At the risk of sounding callous, the demise of Ms. Houston barely rippled the surface of my consciousness.  While I admit that I liked a few of the songs that she released in the 1980s and 1990s, for some time Whitney Houston had been little more to me than another pampered, drug-addled celebrity whose career had seen better days.  Her marriage to Bobby Brown and their reality television show did nothing to improve her image n my eyes.  Of course, none of this matters to the people who loved her before she became a star and, perhaps, in spite of her fame.  Their grief is real and deserves more respect than a soundbite on tabloid TV shows.

Perhaps we are too quick to accept the mortal departure of singers, musicians, comedians, actors, and other people who entertain us.  Do we expect — indeed, demand — that these individuals burn out in tragically spectacular fashion?  There are, of course, those stars who dance close to the line of self-destruction and are fortunate enough not to tumble irrevocably into oblivion.  (Yes, Robert Downey, Jr., I am talking about you.  And yes, I am eagerly awaiting the Avengers movie later this year.)  Redemption is big business, and always has been, especially in America.  Martin Luther understood that; and the rest is history.

The loss of Ms. Houston reminds us that prodigious talent often cannot shield those who possess it from the devastation of personal demons or bad choices.  To be sure, we mere mortals who cannot sing, act, or do anything else worthy of the blinding light of fame have many of the same burdens.  And with any luck, our secrets and slip-ups will never be the lead stories on the evening news or TMZ.

I’m Good Enough, I’m Smart Enough, and Doggone It, People (Don’t) Like Me!

Mitt Romney must feel as if he has truly entered the Twilight Zone, or that he is Stewart Smalley’s evil twin.  He is accomplished, intelligent, (sometimes) well-spoken, attractive, focused, determined, and very, very rich.  His opponents for the Republican nomination include a brilliant, but erratic and irascible former Speaker of the House, a conservative zealot trying to revive a derailed political career, and a libertarian maverick.  By any stretch of the conventional political imagination, Romney should be the poster child for a resounding victory against a weakened incumbent Democrat in November.  (What would the late GOP strategist Lee Atwater have done with a hand of cards like these?)  And yet…he seems unable to close the deal.  Or rather, the Republican rank and file just do not seem to be convinced that he is the man to lead them to the Promised Land of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.  Indeed, the latest polls of Republican voters place former Senator Rick “Sweater vest” Santorum ahead of Romney. How can this be so?  By most accounts, Romney has done just about everything right in his pursuit to become the standard-bearer for the Republican Party: he has piles of money, a disciplined organization, and a message that should resonate in hard economic times.  (And he has fabulous hair!)  To be sure, he as made some foolish statements; but to my knowledge he has neither said nor done anything that has made him unelectable.  Some say that the reason for the unease about Romney is that he is “not conservative enough.”  Others think that there may be a lingering prejudice against Mormons.  (I suspect, however, that these may be the same people who persist in believing that President Obama is a Muslim.)  Still others maintain that Romney’s capitalist success story has made it impossible for him to comprehend the plight of the struggling middle and lower classes of American society.  I do not pretend to have an answer for this baffling state of affairs.  Many people with bigger brains and even bigger paychecks are working around the clock on this one.  I have little doubt that the Romney Machine will find a way into the hearts — as well as the minds — of the GOP faithful.  The Man from Massachusetts may get a little bloody, and his perfectly pressed shirt and blue jeans may show a bit of mud from the campaign trail; but he will capture the nomination — and perhaps even the respect and devotion of his fellow Republicans. But Romney may find the 2012 Election to be the “dark, drizzly November of [his] soul.”  Why?  He just might win.  As the old adage goes, “Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.”

Better Red Than Dead

Off we go into the wild blue yonder,

Climbing high into the sun;

Here they come zooming to meet our thunder,

At ‘em boys, Give ‘er the gun! (Give ‘er the gun!)*

Down we dive, spouting our flame from under,

Off with one helluva roar!**

We live in fame or go down in flame. Hey!***

Nothing’ll stop the Army Air Corps!¹ 

¹ Robert MacArthur Crawford wrote what is now known as the “U.S. Air Force Song” in 1939. The original title and lyrics contained the words “Army Air Corps,” which I have used here.

Last weekend I finally made time to see Red Tails, George Lucas’ long-awaited and much-discussed epic about the experience of Tuskegee Airmen serving in Italy during World War II.  I was vaguely aware of the controversy swirling around the film: Lucas’ difficulty in securing financial and promotional backing for a “Black” project that had nothing to do with Tyler Perry; the interracial romance between two characters; the less-than-impressive box office receipts, etc.  However, none of these things explained why I was slow to add my pennies to George the Great’s coffers.  Rather, I was already quite familiar with the story of the Airmen and believed that I would not learn anything new from the movie.  I was, it turned out, wrong.

On the night I saw “Red Tails,” the audience was small but diverse.  Several young people of color were in the crowd, a fact that assaulted me with ambivalence.  On the one hand, I was glad to see people who might have a slight interest in learning some history, albeit served up in a form “based on actual events.”  On the other, I was apprehensive that the assembled masses would engage in a running — and loud — dialogue with the movie’s characters.  (Do not act surprised.  Black people are famous such cinematic interaction.)  I am pleased to report that my mixed emotions soon melted away as my senses were overwhelmed by scenes of the beautiful Italian countryside and the exhilaration of flight.

The movie took me back to a time when the freedoms I now enjoy without the slightest thought were denied to people who look like me.  Racism was not a theory; it was real, terrible, and an accepted fact of life.  The intelligence, ability, and patriotism of African-Americans were openly questioned, even in the face of a world-wide struggle against the unparalleled evil of fascism.  Indeed, there were moments when it was hard for me to tell which enemy was more reprehensible: the American officers who doubted and belittled the Tuskegee Airmen or the ruthless German pilots whom the Airmen desperately wanted to meet in battle.

While it obviously depended upon certain stock traits and characters, “Red Tails” also managed to depict African-American men who treated themselves and others with the respect that American society had denied them.  They were highly-trained professionals who took pride in what they did — and were willing to give the last full measure for a country in which they were, at best, step-citizens.  Moreover, the movie reintroduced us to the concept of shared national sacrifice during times of crisis, a sensibility that has proven to be elusive in the wars America has fought during the last decade.

When the last of the credits had rolled off the screen and the lights came up, I found myself feeling grateful to George Lucas for using his enormous wealth and influence to remind us that America is still very much a work in progress.  In our current age of economic dislocation, social media inundation (and alienation), and bitter partisanship in the corridors of leadership, it is encouraging to know that our heroes do not always have to come from a galaxy far, far away.

The Braveheart Is A Lonely Hunter

“The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love…A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many.”

– Carson McCullers, The Ballad of the Sad Café and Other Stories

To me, the truly amazing thing about the audio striptease that is latest Mel Gibson scandal is the fact that people continue to be surprised by his behavior. Really? There are actually people out there who did not know that Mr. Gibson is a raving, racist lunatic? I always wondered what became of the O. J. Simpson trial jurors. Now I know.

The media is fairly choked with opinion about whether Mr. Gibson is beyond redemption, mentally ill, a danger to himself and his family, or engaged in some bizarre attempt to revive his fading career. As for myself, I prefer to see Mr. Gibson through the lens of the Southern literature class I took as a junior at Yale.

Under the marvelous tutelage of Professor Candace Wade, my classmates and I hiked through the tortured and magnificently layered landscape of the giants of Southern literature including, of course, William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Carson McCullers, Robert Penn Warren, and Harper Lee. Never before had I been simultaneously so proud and terrified of my Southern heritage. Among the many things that I remember from that class is the Southerner’s unique approach to dealing with crazy people. (It was the 80s. We were not burdened by political correctness back then.) To paraphrase Professor Wade, whom I believe was quoting Eudora Welty (or was it Julia Sugarbaker?), “In the South, we do not hide our crazy people in the attic. We put them on the front porch for everyone to see.” Would anyone be paying attention to Mr. Gibson if he were, say, Mary Susan’s odd Uncle Mel who liked to sit on the porch, drink beer, and yell obscenities at passersby – and not a Hollywood star? Probably not. Indeed, Mary Susan might even try to dress Uncle Mel up on occasion and take him to church, and then to Sunday dinner at the widow Taylor’s house. Uncle Mel is, after all, still family.

I do not, of course, mean to imply at all that Mr. Gibson should be given a pass for his despicable behavior, or that the allegations of domestic abuse should be taken lightly. The proper authorities need to do their jobs; and Mr. Gibson should seriously consider finding someone who can help him deal with the issues that repeatedly erupt with such disturbing fury. In the meantime, he should stay off the telephone and away from the cameras. And, if possible, he should also find a shady porch, a nice rocking chair, a cold glass of lemonade, and some Ritz crackers. If he is going to be crazy, why not do it in style?

Where’s Waldo?

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.”

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance, 1841

Shake it up is all that we know,
Using bodies up as we go
I’m waking up to fantasy
The shades all around aren’t the colors we used to see
Broken ice still melts in the sun
And ties that are broken can often be one again,
We’re soul alone and soul really matters to me…Take a look around

You’re out of touch, I’m out of time (time)
But I’m out of my head when you’re not around

– Hall and Oates, “Out of Touch”

Recently I spoke to a group of freshmen who were being inducted into several different honors societies on campus. My theme was the quest for excellence. As I have few opportunities now to actually interact with the rising generation, I was eager to say something that would have some resonance with students over twenty-five years younger than I am. For some reason, it seemed to me that the best way to do this would be to draw upon the idea of “the quest” as represented in history, mythology, and popular culture. Intoxicated by this IDEA and fortified by the power of Google, I put together a brief series of images that I believed were iconic representations of “the quest”: Gilgamesh and Enkidu, Jason and the Argonauts, the members of the Fellowship of the Ring, Indiana Jones, the original crew of the Starship Enterprise, and Mulder and Scully. I gave my talk; I got a few laughs from the audience, and left the stage thinking that it went better than I had hoped.

During the reception after the induction ceremony, a student approached me and admitted that she has never been able to understand a thing that I say, including the presentation of which I had been so proud just minutes before. I was stunned. She was an honors student and reasonably bright – the type of student I work hard every day to attract to my institution and inspire—and I could not reach her. Suddenly I was awash again in the disappointment and frustration that I so well remember from my days as an assistant professor of history. And like any good denizen of the Age of Social Media, I jumped onto Facebook and asked my digital friends to tell me what I had missed. Surely, I thought, they would see the brilliance of my approach and depth of my commitment to being relevant to my students.

My bruised ego was soothed by several of my friends; and I thank them for it. However, a well-respected colleague who is also an award-winning teacher chided me for failing to use cultural reference points that actually come from the world experienced by my students, not the one I remember from the last millennium. I was indignant, firm in my belief that a truly intelligent person would know and understand the examples I had used – examples which surely rose above the flotsam and jetsam of what passes for popular culture today. Why, in my day…

My colleague was absolutely correct. I had dismissed the era inhabited by my students – i.e., NOW – as irrelevant and inferior to the Golden Epoch of my youth. I had closed my eyes, willingly, to a world that was continually and stubbornly remaking itself. I was not the teacher or mentor that my students deserve. Somehow, at the ripe old age of 43, I had transformed into an embittered old codger.

I used to joke that I became an historian because I understood the dead better than the living. I cannot laugh any longer. I see now that I must embark upon my own quest out of the realm of shades and back into the world of the living. I am not sure that I am up for the challenge, but I have to try. Jim Kirk and Indiana Jones would not have it any other way.

Psycho Killer, Qu’est Que C’est?

This year marks the 50th anniversary of Alfred Hitchcock’s classic thriller “Psycho”.  This milestone surprises me on two levels: first, I cannot believe that the movie was made a half-century ago; and second, I am amazed that the story has withstood the passage of time so well. (I should be so lucky when 50 kindly stops for me.) I shall not delve into the deeper meanings of “Psycho”, its place in cinematic history, or what it said (and still says) about American culture. Brighter minds than mine have already teased apart the strands of this wig. (Sorry. I could not resist.)  See, for instance, film critic David Thomson’s new book The Moment of Psycho: How Alfred Hitchcock Taught America to Love Murder (Basic Books, 2009). 

What strikes me about the movie is that it shows how ordinary people exist along the spectrum of evil.  At one end is Janet Leigh’s character Marion Crane, a mild-mannered woman engaged in a clandestine affair (is there another kind?) and who decides on a Friday afternoon to change her life by stealing $40,000 in cash from her employer.  At the other end is the unassuming and slightly awkward Norman F. Bates, whose crimes are so well known to us that I need not describe them here.  (That, Dear Reader, is the definition of a true cultural icon.)  Indeed, when we first encounter each character, neither seems capable of doing anything particularly exciting or memorable.  (While it is true that Leigh’s character is engaged in a sexual relationship with a man, her character is redeemed by the fact that she wants to transform the affair into a respectable marriage.)  Thus, it is all the more terrifying when the respective stories of Marion and Norman flow together in that infamous shower scene in the Bates Motel.  Indeed, even though I have seen “Psycho” countless times, a part of me is still shocked that Norman Bates – and not his mother – is a murderer. (He is just so nice. And I am sure that he also bakes pies – just like Jeffrey Dahmer.) 

Hitchcock understood that a common stain of evil blots each of our souls.  And this “damn’d spot” is the true secret of the enduring power of “Pyscho” to frighten even the most jaded American Idol-watching, Facebook-friending, NPR-addicted, Twidiot out there.  Any one of us can steal.  Any one of us is capable of murder. The conditions that open the door to our darkness just have to be right. The only difference between us and our favorite innkeeper is that the musical score accompanying our crimes is not nearly as good.

The Last Liberal

“The University brings out all abilities, including stupidity.” — Anton Chekhov

“I am always ready to learn although I do not always like being taught.” — Winston Churchill

I am an assistant dean in the college of liberal arts at a public urban university.  Part of my job is to help students solve the myriad of problems that can interfere with their studies.  Believe me, in my three months on the job, I have seen enough to fill several blogs and perhaps a couple of novels. 

Since I am in the College of Liberal Arts, I feel the urge to address the subject of liberal education and its decline on the modern college campus.  Liberal education is one of the few things that I find sacred; and as a professor I was a zealous disciple.  I could not understand (or accept) the fact that my students were not true believers as well.  Reactions to my teaching varied considerably.  On course evaluations my students usually wrote that “my expectations of them were unreasonable.”   On more than one occasion I even heard some of my African-American students call me a racist because I dipped freely into the Western canon for material for my history classes.  I had a few African students who had been educated in the European system.   Interestingly, they found my classes “engaging.”   Some faculty colleagues fretted that my methods would upset the classroom status quo and bring unwanted scrutiny to the department.  Others applauded my efforts, but told me privately that they were doomed to failure.  The rising generation, they warned, did not value learning—or at least, not the type of learning that was familiar to me.

I believe that we have become afraid to expect more of ourselves and our students.  Our consumer-oriented society and the escalating cost of college tuition have convinced us that education is just another product to be purchased; and thus, it must therefore be as attractive and non-threatening as possible to the largest number of potential customers.  True liberal education demands that assumptions be challenged, and ideas be twisted and pulled, and exposed to extremes of opinion.  In my view, to be educated is to be conscientiously uncomfortable.

Ignorance, to update Derek Bok’s familiar adage, is not only expensive, but also user-friendly.  Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.

Seven Things You Can Never Say In Politics

(In Memory of George Carlin, Requiescat In Pace)

When George Carlin died last year, I was deeply saddened.  He was one of the Great Comedians I had listened to from my childhood onward.  Indeed, I do not recall not knowing about Carlin, in the same way I do not recall not knowing how to read.

Anyway, the many obituaries and tributes that poured in paid homage to Carlin’s considerable talents, including his genius for skewering the human condition.  And, of course, they all mentioned his legendary “Seven Dirty Words.”  For a Black Baptist growing up in rural North Carolina, hearing these words was like discovering a lewd and truncated mirror image of the Ten Commandments.  (I should point out that my extremely devout grandparents, who would have cringed at Carlin’s unabashed use of the “Seven Dirty Words,” nevertheless allowed me to listen endlessly to Redd Foxx’s incredibly raunchy comedy records–on Sunday, at that.  Perhaps it had something to do with the way Black people tell stories.  Hmmm.  Methinks I have the subject for another post….)

Anyway, for some reason I felt inspired to write a little list of my own.  I have no idea why I chose politics as my canvas.  Perhaps the ghosts of Governor Eliot Spitzer’s recent resignation or the Monica Lewinsky scandal were clanging around in my head.  Who knows?  I humbly submit my “Seven Things You Can Never Say in Politics”:

1. “I will never raise your taxes.”
2. “Go ahead and follow me.  I have nothing to hide.”
3. “S/he was just a staffer.  I never knew her/him personally.”
4. “I welcome the opportunity to take my case before the American people.”
5. “I never accepted gifts of any kind from that individual.”
6. “I pledge to serve my full term.”
7. “I am looking forward to spending more time with my family.”

Looking again at my list, I no longer find it as amusing as I did when I created over a year ago.  I guess you had to be there. 

Do not worry, Mr. Carlin, wherever you are.  I have no plans to give up my day job and try to do what you made look so easy for so many years.  You, Sir, were the Michelangelo of Mirth. 

[Expletive deleted.]

Morehouse Man In The Mirror

Now, if you’re blue
And you don’t know where to go to
Why don’t you go where fashion sits
Puttin’ on the Ritz
Different types who wear a daycoat
Pants with stripes and cutaway coat
Perfect fits
Puttin’ on the Ritz

Dressed up like a million dollar trooper
Trying hard to look like Gary Cooper
Super-duper

Come, let’s mix where Rockefellers
Walk with sticks or umberellas
In their mitts
Puttin’ on the Ritz

      — Irving Berlin, “Puttin’ On The Ritz”

Morehouse College, one of the flagship HBCUs in the country and the alma mater of generations of prominent African-American males, including Martin Luther King, recently conjured up some controversy by establishing a dress code on campus.  The new policy prohibits do-rags, hats, sunglasses, hoods or offensive clothing in class.   It also bans such items as “decorative orthodontic appliances” (A white female friend who is much more “Black” than I am tells me that these things are known, in the vernacular, as “grillz.”), pajamas, sagging pants, and bare feet.

However, the part of the policy that has drawn the most attention from the media — including a certain Philadelphia Negro – states “No wearing of clothing associated with women’s garb (dresses, tops, tunics, purses, pumps, etc.) on the Morehouse campus or at College-sponsored events.”

Some believe, and I think that they are correct, that this policy is a not-so-subtle attempt by the College administration to control homosexuality and transgender identification on campus.  Homosexuality is one of the most sensitive issues in the so-called Black community; and it is an open secret that Morehouse has a large population of gay men.  For the record, I do not believe that Morehouse is atypical in this regard.  College is (or should be) a place of experimentation and exploring boundaries.  If we expect intellectual awakenings on a college campus, why should we be surprised that sexual awakenings occur there, as well?  Given the generally conservative orientation of Black society, the freedom of expression generally associated with the college campus can be even more powerful for young Black men who do not define themselves — openly or otherwise — as heterosexual. 

By choosing to implement a dress code that at least appears to target a specific population of the College community, Morehouse is treading on difficult ground: the fault line between individual expression expected in an academic setting and the culture of conformity — including the “rules” of what it means to be a Black man.   Though I have certainly ranted against the extreme informality of undergraduate dress and — in my angrier moods — have even advocated a dress code, I find that ultimately, I cannot support this kind of regulation.   While being a “Morehouse man” does carry a certain mystique — in more ways than some would care to admit — attending Morehouse is not, or should not be, like joining the military.   The latter needs to engender conformity in order to prepare its members to undertake the serious business of killing people.   (The armed services can talk all they wish about education and training opportunities; but the bottom line is that they train people to inflict harm upon our enemies as quickly and efficiently as possible.)   Like other institutions of higher learning, Morehouse should encourage the creativity and diversity of its students — even if it means that a few of them look rather stunning in a nice frock.    

Each day I am more conscious of the fact that I am from a different time than the one I share with my students.  I wear button-downs and khakis, and whistle Mozart and Cole Porter.  I voted for Ronald Reagan.  The Establishment works for me.  I like it.   Would I prefer more “conservative” apparel on campus?   Yes.   But fighting for this is a waste of powder.   Morehouse would be wise to invest its resources in the development of young men of character and not the regulation of cravats.    

Ultimately, the late Bart Giamatti said it best when he chose to call his book about the purpose of the university Free and Ordered Spaces.   He believed that on a college campus (and everywhere else), freedom should not be subordinate to intolerance disguised as discipline.   He was right.

Little Barry Gets A Gold Star

That ain’t workin’, that’s the way you do it

Money for nothin’ and your chicks for free

Now that ain’t workin’, that’s the way you do it

Lemme tell ya, them guys ain’t dumb

Maybe get a blister on your little finger

Maybe get a blister on your thumb

– Dire Straits, “Money For Nothing”

I would like to thank the Nobel Committee for forcing me out of my long hiatus from my duties as a blogger.  I could not have imagined a greater gift that its decision to award the 2009 Nobel Prize for Peace to President Barack Obama.  H. L. Mencken is most assuredly spinning in his grave.

I must have missed something in the last nine months of the Obama presidency.  Have the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan ended?  Have the Israelis and Palestinians committed themselves to peaceful coexistence?  Have Iran and North Korea given up their ambitions to become (overtly, at least) nuclear states?  Has the genocide in Darfur ceased?  No?  Then why did Obama win what is arguably the most important and recognizable prize in the world?

My liberal friends and other Obama sycophants insist that the President’s actual achievements in the area of world peace are far less important than his potential to do good.  (I wish I could get my credit card company to accept that logic: surely my potential to pay my bill means more to them than getting a silly check from me every month.)

Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but I was under the impression that the Nobel Prize was awarded to people who had actually done something in the area for which they were being recognized.  Some of Obama’s predecessors in the Oval Office have amassed an impressive record for peace–and they did not get the Nobel Prize for their efforts.  For instance, Jimmy Carter brought Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin to the negotiating table. (Sadat and Begin won the 1978 Prize.  Carter eventually won the Prize in 2002.)  Ronald Reagan restarted nuclear disarmament negotiations with the Soviets and pushed Mikhail Gorbachev to unleash democracy in the former Soviet Union and its satellites.  (Gorbachev won the 1990 Prize.)  Bill Clinton hammered out peace in Northern Ireland and got Yasser Arafat and Yitzhak Rabin to shake hands on the White House lawn.  (Arafat, Rabin, and Shimon Peres won the 1994 Prize.  Bill is, I am sure, actively campaigning to get the Prize before Hillary does.)  Even Presidential also-ran Al Gore managed to finally win something: the 2007 Prize.

To be sure, achieving peace anywhere in the world–or even down the block–is an elusive and frustrating goal; and prior Administrations could not and did not accomplish everything that they might have desired.  And President Obama faces challenges that his predecessors could not have imagined in their worst nightmares of global Armageddon.  Be that as it may, he has not yet met what should be a very high standard to join such exclusive company.

Awarding Obama the Nobel Prize for his potential as a peacemaker is disturbingly similar to the current practice of giving children prizes, certificates, etc. for just about anything that they do.  (I mean, how ridiculous is kindergarten graduation?)  Greater minds than mine have proposed that this ready availability of praise cheapens its value and creates an expectation that merely showing up merits getting an award.  Hard work, sacrifice, and determination are dismissed as unnecessary or even foolish.  Obama, of course, could not have achieved such amazing success before reaching age 50 had he subscribed to this point of view.  But accepting the Nobel Prize for Peace now ironically contradicts the amazing and (I admit) inspiring narrative of his life.

President Obama should do the right thing and refuse the Nobel Prize for Peace.  I am pretty sure that he will get another crack at it.