People who despise G.W. Bush sneeringly refer to him as a “cowboy.” Actually, the term fits him and T. Blair quite nicely, although it’s hard to imagine the Brit in a roundup scene of “Lonesome Dove.” But G.W. could pull it off easily. He hath that lean look, the thin-lipped smirk and that “aw shucks, ma’am” manner. Four letter words suit him just fine…Mr. Dillon. Only two famous cowboys could have matched G.W. for simple talk. Gary Cooper and Clint Eastwood. But the three have more in common—much more. As Marshal Will Kane in “High Noon,” Cooper single-handedly faced down a bunch of killer outlaws as the townspeople, cowards every one, hid behind shuttered windows. They half-wanted Kane to fail to assuage their massive guilt. In “High Plains Drifter,” The Stranger, aka Clint, rides into the miserable town of Lago and (for a price) saves the place from evil thugs. The tale is as old as time. Go to any schoolyard at recess and you’ll find the resident bully who never stops abusing the weak until somebody takes him down. Dirty Harry knew the score. So did Charles Bronson who looked evil in the eye and saw it for what it was. Evidently, Hollywood doesn’t believe in the rightness of its own scripts. It would rather stand alongside the pacifists, the PC crowd and the CLU to protect a beast from “moralists” like G.W. Oh, well, nobody likes a do-gooder from Texas. And who really cares if a dictator butchers a couple of million people. It’s his country. If the Iraqi people don’t care enough to rise up, maybe they deserve to be thrown into plastic shredders, gassed and tortured. Cutting out tongues and hanging up menustrating women by their feet is a bit extreme, but it was, after all, during peacetime. As long as death and mutilation don’t occur during war, they don’t seem to have the same appeal. At least, it’s hard to recall how many of our idealistic citizens jammed the streets of New York, Washington and San Francisco to protest minor episodes like acid baths and random beheadings. Ethnic cleansing and genocide does keep the world population in check. Yes indeed. In the final analysis, who is the U.S. to pass judgment anyway—a country that practiced slavery at its birth and even now allows a private golf club to discriminate against women. For shame. We have a lot to learn. Maybe the protestors are trying to tell us we actually deserved 9-11. Perhaps they believe if we turn the other cheek, the bad people will go away. Instead of resorting to violence, God forbid, they will want former Presidents Carter and Clinton to travel the world to apologize for America’s bullying excesses and to search for diplomatic compromises. Meanwhile, others—many others—would rather put their lives, and the world’s fate, in the hands of a cowboy.

Legend has it that humans spend lifetimes yearning for solace, for idyllic surroundings and freedom from clamor and stress. The notion is we put our noses to the grindstone and bust ass for decades to get away from the madding crowd. If only we can put enough away to buy a little place at the coast or at the top of a mountain to escape the chaos. If only. We despise the clogged highways, the choking fumes, the noise. Everywhere we turn. The economy stinks but development is on a rampage, squeezing us ever closer. Jets roar overhead. Semis, SUVS and 4×4 monsters barrel along, itching to cozy up behind our puny cars. We hate crowds, the press of flesh, the infected air. We loathe being treated like cattle, herded along the human corrals of airports, theme parks and branch banks. At Wendy’s, for Pete’s sake. It’s the bigness that afflicts us. We think it’s offensive and oppressive. We hate it. Baloney. What a bunch of hooey. The truth is humans love crowds and crowding. We are no different than the wildebeests of Africa or the penguins and seals of Antarctica. We find any excuse to congregate and huddle. We cram into neighborhoods, cram into concert halls, cram into sporting arenas, cram into discos, cram onto beaches and into restaurants and cruise ships and street scenes and courtrooms and prisons. We love the bigness and the congestion. We always vote for it because it means we’re growing. Nobody wants to shop in an empty store at Christmas. Almost prideful, we complain about traffic as if we had conquered Mt. Everest; but secretly we adore the endless interstate convoys and jammed parking lots. Teenagers cruise the streets and park in public places like elephants at a watering hole. Harley riders gather by the tens of thousands. If we happen to be alone, TV fills our vacuum, replacing live bodies with an endless lineup of talking heads. Growth, congestion and noise make us happy, especially the people in power. Some rare individuals who mistakenly love solitude believe they can avoid the rest of humanity. How naive. They find remote land and build a hideaway. Almost overnight, a grand development springs up all around them like kudzu. They build spacious enclaves insulated from the multitudes; but, with the insistence of caring family, they eventually end up rubbing bedpans with total strangers. Unless you’re an eagle, there’s no escaping your fellow humans who enjoy swarming no less than do sociable honeybees. For those loners who question this inevitable fate, park your favorite toys at the most remote corners of the shopping center parking lots, 500 yards from the nearest vehicles. When you return, you will have neighbors snuggled inches from your wax job. It’s what humans do, after all. And zebras, geese, antelope, hippos, rhinos, et. al.

Two people deserve Nobel Prizes. The person who invented the mute button. And the person who originally situated the mute button on the steering wheel. Eighty percent of the talk from car radio has the power to turn a normally intelligent person of average common sense into a raving lunatic. DJs ramble on about nothing, using grammar that proves the absolute demise of the education system. Media noise is like a perpetual avalanche. Everywhere you turn. In the gym, the restaurant, the hospital room, the car, the plane. Talking heads talking, talking. Telling you the same thing every half hour, repeating, repeating. Letting you know everything bad happening to everyone everywhere in the world. The avalanche is a roar. And then you remember you have an option. All you need is a thumb. And the button. Ahhhh.