Your wise American people

Like everyone else, I knew of William F. Buckley, Jr. before I knew of his son Christopher. The father was the never-doubting Roman Catholic, Conservative icon, author of God and Man at Yale. I heard him debate at the Yale Political Union around 1962 and was so persuaded by his brilliance and fire that I shot upright in the standing vote to register my opinion that Buckley had won. Then there was "Firing Line" and The National Review, which I even subscribed to for a time. (I also subscribed over the years to The New Republic, Mother Jones, Ramparts, Harper's, The Atlantic Monthly, The Wilson Quarterly, Foreign Affairs, The New York Review of Books, as well of course as to Time and Newsweek and The New Yorker.)

I'd heard of the son, seen his byline in The New Yorker, then saw him in the bonus material for the feature film "Thank You for Smoking," adapted from his comic novel. But I never read anything he wrote until his memoir about his father (and his mother), Losing Mum and Pup, from which I quoted recently, already knowing that I'd found someone whose books I'd likely enjoy.

In his 2008 comic novel, Supreme Courtship, the President of the United States has just nominated TV judge Pepper Cartwright to fill a vacancy on the United States Supreme Court. Pepper is being prepped by the President's aides:

On a discrete signal from Graydon, Hayden turned to another page of his briefing tome and in a mild tone of voice said, "Judge Cartwright, your father...[is] a minister, down in Texas."
    "First Sabbath Tabernacle of Plano. Giving witness to the Word, twenty-four seven, rain or shine, hell or high water, no sin too small, no crime too dire. Yeaaaah, Jesus!"
    "Sorry?"
    "It's how he begins his Sunday broadcast."
    "Ah. Yes. Growing up in that environment must have affected your own religious views?"
    "Certainly, sir. But as to that, I don't really have any religious views."
    "How do you mean?"
    "Well, Senator, we all keep the Sabbath in our own way."
    "May I ask how you keep it?"
    "In bed with a crossword puzzle, coffee, and a croissant."
    "I see."
    "I could leave out the croissant part at the hearings, if you want, if you think it sounds too French. Want me to substitute bagel? Or is that too Jewish? What about crumb cake? Crumb cake sounds American enough."
    Hayden and the other senators exchanged uneasy stares.
    Hayden said, "Your lack of religious views, again, if I may, I don't mean to...what I'm trying to get at is..."
    "Let me help you out here, Senator. When I was nine years old I watched my momma get hit by lightning. Now, my daddy interpreted that as the Almighty's punishment for playing golf on the Sabbath and built a whole church around it. I drew a different inference."
    Hayden said, "The inference being...I don't mean to pry, but..."
    "That God is a son of a bitch," she said.

She said that?" the President said.
    It was later the same day. He had just handed a worn-out-looking Graydon Clenndennynn a double martini and had poured himself a frosty schooner of beer.
    "Freely," Graydon said. "Gleefully. She's an atheist. Proud of it."
    "Oh, my," said the President..."There have been Supreme Court justices who didn't believe in God. Haven't there?"
    "Yes, but I don't think they presented their views quite so gleefully or vividly at the confirmation hearings..."
    "Hmm," the President said. "Well, maybe it will come off as refreshing. Santamaria [one of the sitting Justices, seemingly based on Antonin Scalia] practically wears his Knights of Malta feather cap to Court. She's honest. Transparent. A breath of fresh Texas air. The people will respond. I know it."
    "Donald, according to polls, more people in this country believe in the Immaculate Conception than in evolution. I don't know why you're always carrying on about the so-called 'wisdom of the American people.' Half of the population seems to me to be demented. Belong in cages..."
    "Maybe it won't come up," said the President.
    "I wouldn't count on that. There are five thousand reporters out there, digging. Like worms."
    The President sipped his beer. "Her father, the TV reverend. He'll balance out the religious aspect. It'll be fine."
    ...
    "God, please, no. He'll start speaking in tongues...She seems fond of the grandfather. Former sheriff. His name is JJ, wouldn't you know? Droopy mustache, big shiny belt buckle, soulful eyes. He'll do. Your wise American people love that sort of thing." [pp. 63-66]