By Charles Goyette

“Imagine these startling headlines with the nation at war in the Pacific six months after Dec. 7, 1941: “No Signs of Japanese Involvement in Pearl Harbor Attack! Faulty Intelligence Cited; Wolfowitz: Mistakes Were Made.” Or how about an equally disconcerting World War II headline from the European theater: “German Army Not Found in France, Poland, Admits President; Rumsfeld: ‘Oops!’, Powell Silent; ‘Bring ’Em On,’ Says Defiant FDR.”

It seems to me that when there is reason to go to war, it should be self-evident. The Secretary of State should not need to convince a skeptical world with satellite photos of a couple of Toyota pickups and a dumpster. And faced with a legitimate casus belli, it should not be hard to muster an actual constitutional declaration of war. Now in the absence of a meaningful Iraqi role in the 9/11 attack and the mysterious disappearance of those fearsome Weapons of Mass Destruction, there might be some psychic satisfaction to be had in saying, “I told you so!” But it sure isn’t doing my career as a talk-show host any good.

The criterion of self-evidence was only one of dozens of objections I raised before the elective war in Iraq on my afternoon drive-time talk show on KFYI in Phoenix. Many of the other arguments are familiar to readers of The American Conservative.

But the case for war was a shape-shifter, skillfully morphing into a new rationale as quickly as the old one failed to withstand scrutiny. For a year before the war, I scrambled to keep up with the latest incarnations of the neocon case. Most were pitifully transparent and readily exposed. (Besides the aluminum tubes and the trailers that had Bush saying, “Gotcha,” does anyone remember those death-dealing drones? Never have third-world, wind-up, rubber-band, balsa-wood airplanes instilled so much fear in so many people.) Still, my management didn’t like my being out of step with the president’s parade of national hysteria, and the war-fevered spectators didn’t care to be told they were suffering illusions. So after three years, I was replaced on my primetime talk show by the Frick and Frack of Bushophiles, two giggling guys who think everything our tongue-tied president does is “Most excellent, dude!” I have been relegated to the later 7–10 p.m. slot, when most people, even in a congested commuting market like Phoenix, are already home watching TV.

Why did this happen? Why only a couple of months after my company picked up the option on my contract for another year in the fifth-largest city in the United States, did it suddenly decide to relegate me to radio Outer Darkness? The answer lies hidden in the oil-and-water incompatibility of these two seemingly disconnected phrases: “Criticizing Bush” and “Clear Channel.”

Criticizing Bush? Well then, must I be some sort of rug-chewing liberal? Not even close. As a boy, I stood on the grass in a small Arizona town square when Barry Goldwater officially began his 1964 presidential run. And I was there for the last official event of the Goldwater campaign. My job was to recruit and manage my fellow junior-high and high-school conservatives in a phone bank operation, calling supporters to fill up as many buses as possible to help pack the stadium—a show of strength for the nation’s television viewers. Of course that’s an insignificant role to play in a presidential campaign, but it was pretty heady stuff for a 14-year-old kid from Flagstaff.

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