The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin by Joe McGinniss Page B
Authors: Joe McGinniss
Tags: Politics
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to not let myself grow too spiteful. But she’s the one who gets the Christian perspective all wrong. Look at this hatred for Obama. Is that being a true Christian? I’m a conservative and I oppose his big-government policies, but I don’t try to incite hate. And her so-called family values? After the way she’s neglected her own kids? She’s too narcissistic to care about her kids. It’s always ‘me, me, me,’ and everybody else is always wrong. She’s so narcissistic she couldn’t even care for a pet. And that’s true. Linda Menard gave her a puppy named Agia. She got rid of it because she couldn’t be bothered to care for it.
“Name one thing she’s done—just one—that reflects a truly caring, Christian heart. She’s never volunteered for charity. Habitat for Humanity? The United Way? Even Christian-sponsored charities. Take a look at her tax returns. Do you see any donations? Do you see even a dime? No, what you see is them trying to get out of paying property tax on that cabin they built on Safari Lake.”
These are strong words to be uttered in a venue as mellow as Vagabond Blues on such a spirit-lifting spring afternoon.
“It’s time for strong speech,” Henning says. “She’s running for president. And I need to find a way to make the religious-right hard core understand that she’s not what she says she is. I used to go to Assembly of God. When I was a kid, I watched them speak in tongues. I don’t know what Sarah has taken away from her experiences there,but it’s twisted. She’s twisted. And you’ve managed to show that already, without having written a word.”
Henning has to leave. He’s heading for the Gulf of Mexico to work on cleaning up the BP oil spill. I walk him out to his truck. He unlocks it and takes two guns off the front seat. One is a Glock. I don’t recognize the other one.
“Take your choice,” Henning says. “Or take them both, if you want.”
“No, thanks,” I say. “I walk in peace.”
“So do I,” he says, “but you’re living next door to the Palins.”
Thursday, June 3, 2010
I’M AWAKENED by an unfamiliar sound. Rain on the roof. First rain in the twelve days I’ve been here. In other ways, the climate seems to be improving.
A woman I don’t know, who got my e-mail address from a friend, writes to say that I am welcome to stay at her house on Knik-Goose Bay Road. “You can see the neighbors’ porch lights in the distance at night and hear a bunch of howling dogs, but otherwise it’s pretty quiet and my house is down a long driveway so nobody would know you are even here. Got an extra house key ready for you. If anyone asked, I’d just tell them you’re my cousin Joe from New Jersey.”
It’s not the first such invitation I’ve received, though it is the first from someone I’ve never met. It’s not long before the second arrives.
In preparation for Nancy’s arrival, I’m washing the dishes at 11:00 AM when I see a big black truck pull up to the chain and stop. A large man gets out and starts walking toward the house. I cannot tell if he’s armed.
I open the front door and step out. “Can I help you?”
He grins. He’s got a voice like a bear. “I came to see if I could help you.”
His name is Jay Cross and he lives out beyond Big Lake, twenty miles to the west. He’s a part-Native lifelong Alaskan, a retired air force mechanic with a wife, grown children, and grandchildren. In 2006 he ran as a centrist independent for state senate against Republican incumbent Charlie Huggins and lost. I invite him in, telling him not to bother taking his shoes off.
“I won’t stay long,” he says, “and I’m sorry to show up unannounced. But I’ve been reading about this bullshit you’re having with these people next door and it pisses me off. They’re not behaving like Alaskans. You know that. You’ve been here before.”
“Thank you. It may start to die down.”
“Well, I hope so. Now, I know everybody and his
“Name one thing she’s done—just one—that reflects a truly caring, Christian heart. She’s never volunteered for charity. Habitat for Humanity? The United Way? Even Christian-sponsored charities. Take a look at her tax returns. Do you see any donations? Do you see even a dime? No, what you see is them trying to get out of paying property tax on that cabin they built on Safari Lake.”
These are strong words to be uttered in a venue as mellow as Vagabond Blues on such a spirit-lifting spring afternoon.
“It’s time for strong speech,” Henning says. “She’s running for president. And I need to find a way to make the religious-right hard core understand that she’s not what she says she is. I used to go to Assembly of God. When I was a kid, I watched them speak in tongues. I don’t know what Sarah has taken away from her experiences there,but it’s twisted. She’s twisted. And you’ve managed to show that already, without having written a word.”
Henning has to leave. He’s heading for the Gulf of Mexico to work on cleaning up the BP oil spill. I walk him out to his truck. He unlocks it and takes two guns off the front seat. One is a Glock. I don’t recognize the other one.
“Take your choice,” Henning says. “Or take them both, if you want.”
“No, thanks,” I say. “I walk in peace.”
“So do I,” he says, “but you’re living next door to the Palins.”
Thursday, June 3, 2010
I’M AWAKENED by an unfamiliar sound. Rain on the roof. First rain in the twelve days I’ve been here. In other ways, the climate seems to be improving.
A woman I don’t know, who got my e-mail address from a friend, writes to say that I am welcome to stay at her house on Knik-Goose Bay Road. “You can see the neighbors’ porch lights in the distance at night and hear a bunch of howling dogs, but otherwise it’s pretty quiet and my house is down a long driveway so nobody would know you are even here. Got an extra house key ready for you. If anyone asked, I’d just tell them you’re my cousin Joe from New Jersey.”
It’s not the first such invitation I’ve received, though it is the first from someone I’ve never met. It’s not long before the second arrives.
In preparation for Nancy’s arrival, I’m washing the dishes at 11:00 AM when I see a big black truck pull up to the chain and stop. A large man gets out and starts walking toward the house. I cannot tell if he’s armed.
I open the front door and step out. “Can I help you?”
He grins. He’s got a voice like a bear. “I came to see if I could help you.”
His name is Jay Cross and he lives out beyond Big Lake, twenty miles to the west. He’s a part-Native lifelong Alaskan, a retired air force mechanic with a wife, grown children, and grandchildren. In 2006 he ran as a centrist independent for state senate against Republican incumbent Charlie Huggins and lost. I invite him in, telling him not to bother taking his shoes off.
“I won’t stay long,” he says, “and I’m sorry to show up unannounced. But I’ve been reading about this bullshit you’re having with these people next door and it pisses me off. They’re not behaving like Alaskans. You know that. You’ve been here before.”
“Thank you. It may start to die down.”
“Well, I hope so. Now, I know everybody and his
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