The American Spectator

* * * * *

As I ring the doorbell at Mr. National Review’s house (the chimes play a sprightly, if slightly discordant, Reveille), I survey his impressive property. The house, a solid brick two-story Federal, commands vistas in every direction from the top of a hill. A Revolutionary war-vintage mortar squats on the front lawn.

“Like that view, huh?” Mr. National exclaims as he snatches open the door. “So do I. Nobody around for miles!”

As I step into the tall entrance hall, decorated with banners, pikes, and coats of arms, a throbbing voice envelops me from speakers hidden — it seems — everywhere. “I believe…for ev’ry drop of rain that falls…”

Mr. National is shouting something at me. I focus my stunned attention. He’s twinkling at me, this youthful, silver-haired man in his gray flannel slacks and cardigan sweater, but I can’t hear a word. “Know who that is?” he bellows again. “Take a guess!”

“Uh, Vic Damone?” I venture at the top of my lungs.

“William Casey!”

Mr. National disappears to adjust a knob somewhere. The baritone voice drops to background level. Mr. National reappears, grinning. “Bet you didn’t know he could sing, did you?” With a wink, he hands me a cassette box, emblazoned with an American flag and the title, Songs of Belief. “Little private issue for those of us in the know,” he explains, winking again. “Come on in the living room.”

One is struck immediately by Mr. National’s collections. His living room, lined with shelves, displays powderhorns, thimbles, decorative plates, pewter, mugs, and steins — every one of them seemingly stamped or painted in patriotic or conservative themes. The thimbles, he says, come from his days as a charter member of Young Americans for Freedom (“a stitch in time…”). The plates (“mostly for the wife”) show grand American scenes: Eagles, canyons, mountains, amber waves of grain, family farms. The coffee mugs memorialize Republican caucuses and conventions back to 1952.

I spend a pleasant, if slightly addled, afternoon with Mr. National, well fortified with Scotch (“The sun’s over the yardarm someplace”), firing off muzzle loaders in the back yard and finally taking a spin in his Model T replica. Yes, we’re drunk, but as Mr. National points out, we drive only on his property, not on the public roads. Getting me home again is another matter. Mr. National calls a cab and I leave my car. Next day, painfully hung over, I hear my own horn beeping insistently in my own driveway just after dawn, and find that Mr. National has driven my car back for me. So I call a cab for him. Nice fellow. A little strange, but nice.

* * * * *

All right, now let’s tackle The American Prowler. But wait. We don’t have any ads yet. Get on it, will ya, guys?