Howie Carr ping January 2014

Howie Carr thread Jan 2014 starting with his 1/6/14 column on Boston's outgoing and incoming mayors. He's back on his network today after the Christmas/New Year's brea

HC column ping

Sorry Mumbles, it's Maahhhhty Time Now
Boston Herald/1-6/14

Mumbles, these last 20 years have been such a delight.

Or as you would say, a “deblight.”

You will be missed everywhere, from the providences of Canada to the state of Philadelphia, all the way to the western part of Massachusetts — Newton.

So many “ionic” memories, from Gonk and Wes Wexler to KJ and Hondo and Varitek splitting the uprights. All those Red Sock games, the knuckleheads, the Boston Police Intelligent Unit and the historical references to “Dr. Martha Luther King Jr.”

Mumbles won’t be attending his successor’s inauguration — there’s something about Maaaahhhty that really fries Mumbles’ nose.

Still, if a proud billionaire like Michael Bloomberg can show up last week for his successor Bill de Blasio’s swearing in and then endure in stony silence the slings and arrows of outrageous rhetoric from every tinpot race-hustling phony in New York, surely Mumbles could have scheduled a later flight to Fort Myers for himself and Angela.

I was having dinner with a prosecutor recently, and we were discussing Walsh.

“Doesn’t he strike you as a USV kind of guy?” my friend asked.>[? USV? I asked. The prosecutor laughed. “You know, ‘United States versus Marty Walsh.’ ”

Not really. I’m more worried how he’s going to make decisions. Remember, for the last 16 years at the State House he’s been a leadership rep. This means he had to clear it with somebody higher up before he could even go to the bathroom. The phrases Marty’s uttered most over the past 16 years are, “Yes sir, Mistah Chairman,” and, “Whatever you say, Mistah Speakah.”

It was always said that Mumbles’ strength was that he’d personally met over half the people in the city. Walsh’s power may be that he personally IS the New Boston. Think about how he connects with the modern electorate:

• Had a substance abuse problem.

• Got shot.

• Survived cancer.

• Never bothered to marry, no kids.

• Lived at home until he was past 40.

• Didn’t own his own car until last spring.

I wouldn’t go so far as to call Marty “Pajama Boy” — that would be his new chief of staff, Daniel Arrigg Koh, 29. But Marty could well well be Pajama Boy’s blue-collar, urban first cousin.

You can generally follow the progression of a Boston mayor by how long it takes him to start hanging out on a regular basis at the Parkman House. Once that happens, it doesn’t matter how much rhetoric they spew about the neighborhoods or “the community,” they’re owned by the big boys.

Welcome to the Parkman House, Marty. I only have one request. I’d like to get my hands on the report of your Ethics Committee on ex-Rep. John Fresolo.

Just drop it off at the Stockyard, and I’ll pick it up. I didn’t see you, and you didn’t see me.

Tue column ping

here

New Verse, Same Song
Howie Carr, Boston Herald 1/7/14

Look for the union label — it’s Mahhhttty Walsh, and he makes you remember the famous lines from the Who. “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”

Only the old boss isn’t Mumbles Menino, it’s Ray Flynn.

That was a Raybo crowd at the Conte Forum. Favorite fashion accessory: scally caps. Favorite pastime: gum-snapping. It must have been easy finding a parking space at the South Shore Plaza yesterday morning.

Judging by the looks of the crowd, maybe they were giving out meter maid jobs as door prizes. Sure, the downtown schemers were all there too, but it was more blue-collar than most political gatherings nowadays. Even most of the if-you’re-indicted-you’re-invited crowd — Felon Finneran and Tim Cahill — harked back to a less-PC age.

It’s going to be Raybo redux — minus the nightcaps at J.J.’s.

Marty’s inaugural address was modest, but the truth is, you tend to be modest when you know that you didn’t so much win the election as the other guy lost it.

Maybe the speech was forgettable, but when you think about some of the standard moonbat pablum that Walsh didn’t include, it starts to sound a lot better.

He didn’t mention “income inequality,” or “A Tale of Two Cities” (a de rigueur New York moonbat cliche, as if it’s some kind of blinding revelation that poverty and prosperity exist side-by-side in urban areas).

Marty brought up “investments” only once, although it was in the context of “job creation,” that well-known hack dog whistle — your average Marty coatholder doesn’t want an actual job from the program, he wants to be employed by the program, as, say, a community outreach coordinator.

Compare Marty to the fake Indian, U.S. Sen. Granny Warren, formerly a Cherokee, more recently an “Okie to her toes,” and yesterday a self-proclaimed “fellow Bostonian.”

Our fellow Bostonian trotted out all her tired Obama bromides, starting with the “working families,” who always turn out to just be working the system.

Mercifully, Marty gave a shout-out to people “working two or three jobs to make ends meet.” Positive references to people with real jobs — that’s incendiary rhetoric in the age of Obama, borderline hate speech.

Ray Flynn got drummed out of the Democrat Party for less, much less.

Perhaps these seem like minor points, but remember who this state has been electing lately. Think Katherine Clark, an empty pantsuit, carrying 27 of 28 towns in her congressional district. In this baleful environment, you have to be thankful for small blessings.

Like the fact he said: “Boston is open for business.”

Surely he didn’t mean Wal-Mart or Chick-fil-A. That isn’t how to get invited on to MSNBC, mister.

If he’d been old enough, who do you suppose Marty would have voted for in the bitter primaries between Ed King and Mike Dukakis?

Shhhh, don’t tell anybody, he’s got enough on his plate as it is.

Sun column ping

here

Auntie Makes It "Work"
Howie Carr, Boston Herald, 1/12/14

Paging Auntie Zeituni…

If only Barack Obama would spend more time with his beloved relative in South Boston, perhaps he would better understand the ever-growing welfare state he so zealously presides over.

Last week he was pushing for yet another extension in unemployment benefits, dismissing the argument that “it will somehow hurt the unemployed because it saps their motivation to get a new job.”

His audience, gathered together in the middle of what used to be called a “work day,” cheered wildly.

“That really sells the American people short …” Auntie Zeituni’s nephew said. “I can’t name a time when I met an American who would rather have an unemployment check than the pride of having a job.”

Auntie Zeituni, does your nephew really believe such arrant nonsense?

Maybe Barack could claim he wasn’t talking about welfare but “unemployment,” although it’s getting harder and harder to tell the difference. Or perhaps Auntie Zeituni doesn’t count, because she’s not an American, just an illegal alien, or was, until she was granted “sanctuary.”

Sanctuary from work.

Let’s face it, in the modern Democrat party, the dirtiest four-letter word of all is “work.” Granted, Obama’s dismal economy is responsible for tens of millions of Americans on the sidelines — 92.5 million now out of the workforce, according to Friday’s numbers, up 525,000 just last month alone. And doubtless millions of those unemployed would like to return to productive life.

But c’mon … what about the 9 million plus on SSDI? It’s so out of control the Democrat district attorney of Manhattan uncovered a $400 million ripoff centered in the NYPD and FDNY. Husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, a 32-year-old — all being coached by shysters how to dress shabbily, misspell the simplest words and stare off into space when asked questions — they were, in short, being trained to behave like Obama voters.

Everything free in America! Who cares? It all comes out of “Obama’s stash,” as two of his most loyal voters in (where else?) Detroit once laughingly described the welfare-industrial complex.

The CATO Institute did a study last year of welfare benefits in the U.S. It won’t surprise you to learn that Massachusetts was No. 1 in handouts among mainland states (trailing only Barack’s home state of Hawaii and his current address, D.C.).

Here a woman and two children (the typical welfare “family”) can grab up to $42,515 in tax-free handouts every year. That same woman would need to earn $50,540 working to match what she can collect on the dole.

Say what you will about the Tsarnaevs. They were good at making bombs, but they were also good at math. If the infidels were going to support them so handsomely while they waged jihad, why work?

Years ago, a Republican governor of Massachusetts struck yet another dog-whistle w-word from the vocabulary of the hackerama — welfare.

The Mass. welfare department was rechristened the Department of Transitional Assistance. And now U.S. Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee (D-Texas) is suggesting that welfare nationally be renamed “transitional living fund.”

Because, she said last week, these are “not handouts, but safety nets.”

What is it with this word “transitional?” Do the politicians really think that if they change the name, no one will notice that none of their constituents work anymore? But Obama et al. have tried it before — AFDC became TANF, Temporary Aid to Needy Families. Other than the fact that it’s not temporary, most of them aren’t needy and that very few of them are real families, it’s quite an accurate description of the program.

I watch Obama pandering to his shiftless, lowlife base, and I wonder if during his years with the Rev. Jeremiah Wright, he ever delved into the Bible, specifically 2 Thessalonians 3:10.

“If a man will not work, neither let him eat.”

What would your nephew make of that, Auntie Zeituni?

Sun column ping

Oh, For a Happy Ending

Howie Carr, Boston Herald 1/19/14

When “Mitt” is over, you’ll be glad you saw it. But it’s not really the kind of movie you’ll want to watch again, at least if you voted for Mitt Romney in 2012.

Even though you know from the start how the new Netflix documentary turns out, the ending is still depressing. It’s election night 2012 and Romney and his family know they’ve lost. And somebody, I’m not sure who, is telling Mitt that his concession speech needs to be “soothing … pastoral.”

“Yeah, OK,” he says, dismissively. “I don’t think this is a time for soothing and ‘everything’s fine.’ This is really serious, guys, this is really serious. To get up and soothe is not my inclination.”

This is the real Willard. He’s not playing to the cameras now. His wife, Ann, is sitting beside him on the couch, her hair up, as he calmly assesses Barack Obama.

“I cannot believe that he is an aberration,” he says, staring down at his iPad. “I believe we’re following the same path of every other great nation. Which is greater government: tax the rich people, promise more stuff to everybody and borrow until you go over a cliff? And I think we have a very high chance of reaching the tipping point in the next five years. And the idea of saying, hey, everything is fine — it’s really not.”

In other words, he wasn’t kidding about “the 47 percent.”

It’s really amazing that Mitt, as buttoned-down as he is, would agree to give director Greg Whiteley this kind of access. Of course, you can never really know everything that went on behind the scenes, but when one of Mitt’s sons on election night calls John Kerry an “a-hole,” you have to think this is about as close to the real Romney family as any outsider is ever going to get.

The Mitt in “Mitt” is really not all that different from the person who was governor of Massachusetts for four years. You keep waiting for him to lose his composure, but he never does. He’s not the robot he was caricatured as, but he’s not exactly emotional. One of the few weaknesses in the Netflix documentary is that sometimes it’s hard to know who Mitt is talking to off-camera. Is it one of his aides, or the cameraman, or one of his sons?

But it’s always revealing.

At the end of the 2008 primary season, Mitt speaks of spending his own money in the campaign, and says, “When this is over, I will have built a brand name.”

“Yeah,” says whoever he’s talking to, “a guy who will do anything to get elected. Quite a brand name.”

“Yeah,” Mitt agrees, as almost always showing no emotion. “Exactly right.”

Much of the best material comes from the 2008 primaries — the 2012 GOP race is dealt with cursorily, a merciful decision for the audience. Some of the scenes are funny, but eerily prescient. Pitching potential donors in Los Angeles, Mitt jokes about what happens to presidential losers, like a certain earlier Massachusetts governor.

“You become a loser for life,” Mitt says, “Mike Dukakis — he can’t even get a job mowing lawns.”

He’s just such a decent guy, self-deprecating, always polite, loves his family — I always knew he looked up to his father, but I never understood how much until “Mitt.” During the debates, he writes “Dad” on his legal pad.

“I’m standing on his shoulders. He’s the real deal. The guy was born in Mexico! He didn’t have a college degree … I always think about Dad.”

He can even make light of his image as a flip-flopper.

“I was at Burger King last night. I was at McDonald’s the night before!”

I’ve always heard that Mitt was shocked to lose, but in “Mitt” he doesn’t exactly seem to exude confidence on Election Day. And then, as the grim returns come in, his campaign manager, Matt Rhoades, stops by to discuss when to concede.

Rhoades: “We just don’t want you to look like John Kerry.”

Mitt: “Hanging on, you mean.”

Later, as the family discusses what he should say in his concession speech, he brushes aside suggestions that he refer to some vague personal future in politics.

“My time on the stage is over,” he says, as always calm. “I’m happy for my time, but it is over.”

“We’re done,” Ann adds emphatically.

Even at the end, though, he’s trying to keep a stiff upper lip. He tells one of his aides to please make sure his Secret Service detail is pulled. Otherwise, he says, “I will feel ridiculous.”

I give “Mitt” four stars, but it sure could have used a happier ending.

Thu column. btw Chet Curtis has died and I think he was in the death pool. But who knows, maybe he was in the one just before the last one...

column Why is it that every shady politician in the U.S. always seems to have some connection back to Massachusetts?

If it’s not male-page-chasing U.S. Rep. Mark Foley of Florida, it’s the new Marxist mayor of New York, Bill DeBlasio (ne William Wilhelm Jr.) or Texas state Sen. Wendy Davis, she of the fib-filled resume.

And now comes ex-Gov. Bob McDonnell of Virginia, indicted this week along with his wife on federal corruption charges.

I interviewed McDonnell once, and out of the blue he volunteered: “You know, my father was from Peabody. I know Peabody very well.”

Even then, two years ago, it seemed like an odd thing to say. Why would you brag about being from Peabody? Home of Nicky “Pockets” Mavroules, the legendary corrupt ex-mayor and congressman who ran his D.C. office “as a racketeering enterprise,” as the feds put it.

When McDonnell said Peabody, I immediately thought “Pockets.” Now it turns out that Nicky may be only the second most corrupt hack ever to come out of “the Tanner City.”

McDonnell, a Republican, allegedly spent his entire term in office shaking down a businessman named Jonnie R. Williams Sr. The governor’s wife, a former cheerleader for the Washington Redskins (can you still say that word?) had Williams take her on shopping sprees in New York. They drove his Ferrari. They took $135,000 cash. The governor got a Rolex from him, and Williams paid for rounds of golf for the governor and his sons at posh country clubs.

Guess who the main witness against the McDonnells is going to be.

Nicky Pockets would be proud to read “the United States of America vs. Robert McDonnell et al.” You can take the boy out of Peabody, but you can’t take the Peabody out of the boy … .

Pockets’ squalid career ended in perhaps the dumbest play ever in Massachusetts political history. He went to the FBI and accused his son-in-law of committing various crimes. The problem was, his son-in-law was also his bagman.

My favorite Nicky Pockets story concerns Peabody’s most famous landmark, the Golden Banana strip club on Route 1. For whatever reason, Mayor Pockets was one of the Banana’s stoutest defenders.

His motto was, “Let Peabody be Peabody!”

A guy who used to work at Peabody City Hall told me he was once passing a pleasant weekday afternoon at the Banana, drinking on the arm and ogling the feminine pulchritude.

Suddenly, he noticed someone standing beside him — it was Mayor Nicky Pockets, and he was scowling at his hack employee.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” the mayor said, reaching into his pocket and then throwing a couple of bills onto the bar. “When you’re drinking here, always throw some change on the bar, so it looks like you paid for at least one round!”

Words of wisdom for the ages. No wonder Pockets’ portrait still hangs in Peabody City Hall — in the basement, last time I checked, next to the men’s room. With this kind of Peabody pedigree, how did Bob McDonnell ever go wrong?

And here's yesterday's column, "Alleged Dealer Accepts EBT"

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