Published: Thu, 08 Dec 2016 00:00:00 -0500
Last Build Date: Thu, 08 Dec 2016 04:56:52 -0500
Mon, 07 Nov 2016 00:01:00 -0500New Hampshire is a tiny state with about 1.3 million people. California has eight counties with larger populations than that. But in presidential campaigns, size doesn't matter. Donald Trump and Barack Obama will be in New Hampshire on Monday. The 39 million residents of California can only watch from afar. In most political races, candidates spend the most time where they can reap the most votes. In presidential campaigns, however, they often seem to shun any place where large numbers of ballots are cast. California, Texas and New York are the most populous states. But from the number of candidates they've seen lately, they might as well be Siberia. The reason for this weird pattern is a weird institution—the Electoral College, which is what we actually use to choose presidents. Each state has as many votes as it has members of Congress, and 48 states are winner-take-all. Whoever can amass 270 electoral votes becomes president. This unusual formula has the effect of steering candidates away from large states that have a strong bent toward one party or the other. Lose by one vote or a million votes in most places and you get the same electoral harvest: nothing. No one campaigns in California, despite its 55 electoral votes, because it's a haven for Democrats. No one wastes time in Texas, with 38 electoral votes, because it's almost impossible for Republicans to lose. New Hampshire could go either way. So it's worth fighting over despite the meager reward at stake: four electoral votes. A few big states, such as Florida and Ohio, find themselves swarmed with candidates and carpet-bombed with TV ads every four years because neither party can take them for granted. But in other vote-rich places, it's almost possible to forget there's an election. Worst off of all are low-population states that are reliably red or blue. Democrats turned angrily against the Electoral College in 2000, when they discovered it's possible to win the popular vote and lose the election. They might have seen it coming. Back in the 1980s, Republicans were said to have a lock on the Electoral College because they had a clear advantage in 39 states that accounted for 441 electoral votes. Democrats wondered whether they would ever overcome that handicap. They have. These days, it's Republicans who face a nearly impregnable electoral fortress. The 17 states that have voted for the Democratic nominee in each of the past four presidential elections command 242 electoral votes. The 22 that have gone Republican every time have only 180. That's why you keep hearing about Trump's "narrow path to victory." He has to capture several states that Mitt Romney lost in 2012 to win, including Florida, Ohio, Iowa, Nevada and, yes, New Hampshire. Hillary Clinton just has to hold on to one of them to be practically assured of victory. The Electoral College tilt means she could plausibly lose the popular vote and still take the oath of office Jan. 20. Trump couldn't. NPR calculated that in 2012, it was possible to win the presidency with 23 percent of the popular vote. It's a strange mechanism that we accept only because it so rarely affects the outcome. The winner of the popular vote almost always wins the electoral vote. But as President Al Gore can attest, there are glaring exceptions to the rule. The only reason for the lengthy postelection court battle in 2000 over how to count the votes in Florida was the Electoral College. Without it, the hanging chads in Palm Beach County would have been a trivial curiosity—because Gore got nearly 544,000 more votes nationwide than George W. Bush. Traditionalists regard the Electoral College as a sacred creation of the Founding Fathers, whose genius must be respected. But the Framers really had only the dimmest idea what they were doing. Historian Carl Becker wrote in 1945 that "their grasp of political realities, ordinarily so sure, failed them in this instance. Of all the provisions of the federal Constitution, the electoral college system was the most unrealistic—the one provision not based solidly on practical experience[...]
Tue, 12 Jul 2016 21:03:00 -0400Republican Indiana Gov. Mike Pence, says the Washington Times, has a "95 percent probability" of being named Donald Trump's vice presidential candidate. So what kind of pol is the 57-year-old Pence, who has a law degree in his back pocket? He served five terms as a congressman from the Hoosier State, where he distinguished himself as a budget-cutter and a hard-core social conservative before succeeding Mitch Daniels as governor of Indiana in a tight election (he won with less than 50 percent of the vote in 2012). He's locked in a tough re-election battle and has to file papers by the end of the week if he wants to be the GOP's vice presidential nominee. He describes himself as "a Christian, a conservative and a Republican, in that order." Some highlights—and lowlights—from his public career so far: He served as president of the free-market Indiana Policy Review Foundation and hosted a state-wide TV show in the early 1990s. The IPRF lists its mission as trying to "Exalt the truths of the Declaration of Independence, especially as they apply to the interrelated freedoms of religion, property and speech; Emphasize the primacy of the individual in addressing public concerns; and Recognize that equality of opportunity is sacrificed in pursuit of equality of results." He succeeded the awful Dan Burton as an Indiana congressman in 2001 and became the head of the budget-slashing Republican Study Committee and he supported numerous free-trade deals along with the Iraq War. In 2014, Pence was one of just four governors to earn a grade of A in the Cato Institute's Fiscal Policy Report Card, mostly because he proposed spending increases of less than 2 percent and revenue decreases (tax cuts) of just under 2 percent. In 2015, he expanded Medicaid under Obamacare, though unlike most governors, he held out for something other than a straight-up expansion, claiming he introduced a "market-based" plan that Peter Suderman said was "actually a deal between hospital lobbyists and the [Obama] Administration." He also tried to create a state-operated news organization called Just IN that would have produced "free" news and feature stories for news outlets. From Ballotpedia: "Matthew Tully of the [Indianapolis] Star...criticized the initiative by saying, 'The state's conservative governor is creating his own news agency, one that will seek to compete with the traditional media and be funded by taxpayers. You can't make this stuff up, unless you work at the Onion, I guess.'" Also in 2015, he helped cause a shitstorm over Indiana's Religious Freedom Restoration Act (RFRA) by simultaneously insisting that the law didn't sanction discrimination but did preserve the rights of businesses to deny service to LGBT customers under various situations. Come on, gov, it's one or the other, noted Jacob Sullum. The law was subsequently revised in a way that struck "the worst possible balance" between individual rights and state action, according to Shikha Dalmia. More recently, in his 2016 State of the State address, he said, "I will not support any bill that diminishes the religious freedom of Hoosiers or that interferes with the Constitutional rights of our citizens to live out their beliefs in worship, service or work." That was widely understood to mean that he would not sanction the addition of sexual orientation or identity to antidiscrimination laws, a position in keeping with all his public statements on marriage and sexuality. A key line in that same speech was "Jobs, the economy, schools, roads and confronting drug abuse. These are my priorities." He laid out various spending proposals on such issues and bragged, "Our state has been leaning into the war on drugs and will continue to go hard after those who would profit from selling drugs to our kids." In March, he signed legislation increasing mandatory minimums for drug dealers. So where does all of this leave libertarians? Pence is pretty damn good on spending issues and unlike a lot of Republican governors, his tax cuts haven't bankrupted his state (take a bo[...]
Fri, 20 May 2016 15:00:00 -0400All the Way. HBO. Saturday, May 21, 8 p.m. Preacher. AMC. Sunday, May 22, 10 p.m. For weeks I have been brooding about the imminent departure of my guiltiest television pleasure, Cinemax's purely bat-guano insane Banshee, a Parents Television Council anchovy-pizza nightmare of mangled organs and Amish nymphomania. (Not a typo.) It's a psycho crime drama that takes place in a tiny but diverse rural Pennsylvania town that is simultaneously home to the Russian Mob, the American Indian Mob, the Amish Mob, a Colombian cocaine cartel, an armed neo-Nazi bund, and a serial-killing Satanist coven. The town's female population is awesomely busty, relentlessly promiscuous and—if FBI agents—surprisingly receptive to the meditative potential of smoking crack. The interactions of these various demographics are lurid, sanguinary, and a serious challenge to theories of spontaneous order. Alas, Banshee's geometrically progressing body count is bringing it to an end this weekend. The good news is I may have found a replacement. AMC's Preacher, a preposterous goulash of drunken vampires, exploding clergymen, and small town psychosexual kink, seems to share the same cheerily bedlamite DNA that made Banshee such a hallucinatory good time. I knew I was in for something special when a laconic church-goer, discussing the suicide of another parishioner, observed: "Cuttin' your own heart out, that's one thing. But doin' it in front of your own mom, that's strange." Preacher is adapted from a book of the same name in the odd DC Comics line of action-theology titles that also produced FX's Lucifer, an aberrantly entertaining cop show in which Satan takes a break from Hell to join the LAPD. Less high-concept and a bit more complicated to sort out, Preacher is set in a sun-blasted little town called Annville, lost in a forgotten corner of the West Texas desert where the favorite whiskey is called Ratwater and the idea of civic participation is lynching Pedro the Prairie Dog, the PC replacement for the high school's Chief Red Savage mascot. Practically everything in Annville is dead or dying, including the tattered All Saints Congregational, recently taken over by a new minister, Jesse Custer (Dominic Cooper, My Week With Marilyn) with an ecclesiastically dubious past (the townfolk speak, vaguely but ominously, of how he once "did things") and a primitive set of pastoral skills. Approached by one troubled member of his dwindling flock who wants to talk, Jesse demands: "Don't tell me you're here to bitch about the air conditioning." To be fair, the parishioners have not exactly wandered over from Going My Way, either; a son in need of help with an abusive father says he's not interested in counseling: "I want you to hurt him." Custer's languid ministry is about to be disrupted by three forces converging on Annville: A slaughterous ex-girlfriend named Tulip (Ruth Negga, Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.), whose version of a Hallmark homily is that a woman must cultivate fortitude "so that on the day your love is selfish enough or weak enough or frickin' stupid enough to run away, you have the strength to track him down and eat him alive"; a substance-abusing Irish vampire known as Cassidy (BBC regular Joseph Gilgun), often amiable but given to outbursts inspired by his motto "wrath is love"; and a gang of burly men of uncertain intention but displaying an inauspicious affection for chainsaws. Television these days is littered with comic-book adaptations, from the superheroes dominating The CW's primetime schedule to AMC's own impressive stable of post-apocalyptic zombies. But no show has aped the comics style as authentically as Preacher, with its garish violence and cunning ability to cram visual jokes into practically every frame. (Always keep an eye out when a sign or a TV screen comes into view in the background of a scene.) In the opening episode alone, there are lethal impalements carri[...]
Mon, 28 Mar 2016 09:00:00 -0400If the anti-Trump third party plotters want a clue on how they might fare, they can learn from events in another realigning presidential election. Many elements of the story are familiar. Populist insurgents, often backed by low income new voters, seized control of one of the two major parties. Though caught completely off guard, the toppled elite and activists of the original party eventually fought back. They united in a third party intended to be the "true" embodiment of the old. They nominated two prominent politicians and generated substantial media coverage and praise, including from the last standard bearer of the old party. Despite this, the new party was a bust in November, garnering less than one percent of the vote. These events, though dating to more than a century ago, should give pause to advocates of an anti-Trump third party. In 1896, the old leadership of the Democratic Party had watched in horror as a group of outsiders, led by the young and charismatic William Jennings Bryan, captured the national convention and jettisoned the party's traditional support of the gold standard. Bryan charged that past Democratic policies had destroyed American jobs, compromised U.S. sovereignty, and enslaved the U.S. to British economic interests. Rhetoric on all sides was toxic and no reconciliation appeared possible. Democratic Senator Benjamin Tillman, one of the best known of these "Popocrats," even promised to skewer the pro-gold Democratic sitting president, Grover Cleveland, with a pitchfork. Bryan went on the hustings speaking to large and boisterous crowds about how a "cross of gold" was crucifying mankind. Once over the initial shock, anti-Bryan's Democrats expressed determination to never support either him or the Republican alternative, William McKinley, who, though a recent convert to a strict gold standard, championed the protectionism they had long abhorred. They formed the National Democratic Party (NDP), drafted a pro-gold standard platform, and nominated two former governors. The rebels were a diverse coalition of party regulars, such as Senators William Vilas of Wisconsin and Donelson Caffery of Louisiana, former Mayor John P. Hopkins of Chicago, former U.S. Representatives William D. Bynum of Illinois and William C.P. Breckinridge of Kentucky, as well such pro-gold/pro-free trade ideological pundits as Edward Atkinson and Oswald Garrison Villard. Many of the contradictions that characterized the NDP are already appearing in the nascent anti-Trump third party. Among these is an emerging tension between advocates of building a permanent party to replace the GOP, such as Randy Barnett, a professor at Georgetown Law School, and those who, in the words of Bill Kristol, want a "one time, emergency adjustment" allowing voters "to correct the temporary mistake of nominating Trump." Using rhetoric much like current anti-Trump third party advocates, former governor John M. Palmer, the NDP's presidential candidate, hoped to create a "nucleus around which the true Democrat....can rally once more, and to preserve a place for our erring brothers, if the time comes when they repent." Revealingly, Kristol suggests the "Latter Day Republicans" as the party's name. The rebels of 1896 had much the same idea in selecting "the National Democratic Party" as their brand. A major flaw in both the Kristol, and to some extent, the Barnett strategy is already apparent. The stated goal of splitting a major party just to defeat its official candidate clashes with the natural desire of voters in that party to not throw away their votes or help the candidate in the party that remains united. In October 1896, for example, one NDP activist, expressing a widely shared frustration, reported that many Democrats were "almost persuaded" to vote for Palmer "but hesitate at the fear that the National Democracy is but a Republican side show." Not surprisingly, Bryan's supporters had a field day depicting the campaign as giving aid and comfort to the GOP a[...]
Fri, 04 Mar 2016 15:00:00 -0500Race for the White House. CNN. Sunday, March 6, 10 p.m. Sick of the petty, scurrilous venality of the 2016 presidential race and its all-but-certain-to-be-catastrophic outcome? Take a trip back to 1960 with CNN's new documentary series Race for the White House for a respite that will dash away any nostalgic nonsense in your head about how politics, once upon a time, were noble, civic exercises. Scabrous name-calling! Empty-headed sloganeering! Religious bigotry! Vile dirty tricks! Zombie voters! If there's a crooked or sleazy element of American politics that the race between John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon didn't have, I can't imagine what it would be. Race for the White House will explore a different election each week, going back as far as the Lincoln-Douglas race of 1860. (Plus side: No Facebook memes or reality-TV stars. Minus: It ended in a war that killed three-quarters of a million people.) But CNN couldn't have chosen more wisely for an opening episode than the Nixon-Kennedy election, which for millions of Americans too young to remember it has been mostly defined by what happened later: the martyrdom in Dallas and the odiferous cloud of Watergate. As White House shows, though, the story is more complex than that, especially with respect to Kennedy. Though young and glamorous—especially with his gorgeous wife Jackie on his arm ("they were the Beatles before the Beatles," as one political scientist notes) —Kennedy was also callow, more a carefully constructed image than an actual U.S. senator. His massive TV advertising campaign was built around catchy but meaningless jingles rather than issues. He was also unencumbered by excessive devotion to ethics. Kennedy's main opponent for the Democratic nomination was Minnesota's Sen. Hubert Humphrey, as yet untainted by association with the Vietnam war and widely considered the brightest light in American liberalism, a veteran of many bruising fights with the party's powerful Southern segregationist wing. Kennedy aides kneecapped Humphrey in the crucial Wisconsin primary by mailing out anonymous leaflets denouncing the Catholicism of their own man, then letting Humphrey take the blame. The huge backlash from Catholic voters obliterated the Minnesotan and he never recovered. Kennedy rolled over the last obstacle—questions about his health from a last-minute candidate, Lyndon Johnson—by lying through his dazzling teeth, denying that he had what he referred to as "so-called Addison's disease," as if it were a hypochondriac delusion. In fact, Kennedy had several times been pulled back from death's door at the hands of Addison's, an endocrine disorder that causes fever, weight loss, anxiety and violent mood swings, and survived it only with a massive daily cocktail of drugs that included steroids. "Had the American public known just how sick Kennedy was, he probably could not have been a presidential candidate," says his biographer Evan Thomas. But in Nixon, Kennedy faced a candidate with serious problems of his own, principally his weird introversion. Told he needed to spend more time grooming reporters, who loved Kennedy, Nixon went down to a hotel swimming pool where a press cocktail party was underway, waved, swam a few laps, and returned to his room without speaking a word to anybody. White House also debunks some myths about Nixon, particularly concerning his supposedly stiletto-sharp political instincts, which had served him well in the past (he survived a campaign-funding scandal that threatened his 1952 vice-presidential candidacy only by delivering a maudlin speech about his daughters' dog Checkers) but mysteriously went missing in 1960. His most notable lapse came at his first televised debate with Kennedy, which was a disaster. Nixon, unaccountably convinced that Kennedy was a poor TV performer, did little preparation and even made a series of regular campaign appearances on the day of the debate, banging an already-[...]
Mon, 15 Feb 2016 12:10:00 -0500
(image) Welcome, one and all, to this year's Hit & Run Presidents' Day game/quiz/argument-starter:
1. Who do you think is the worst president since World War II? (House rule: You're not allowed to say Obama. I want you to exercise your history muscles. Anyway, his term isn't over yet, and for all you know he'll cure cancer next month.)
2. Who do you think is the best—or, if you prefer, the least awful—president since World War II? (House rule: You're not allowed to say Obama. I want you to exercise your history muscles. Anyway, his term isn't over yet, and for all you know he'll nuke Nebraska next month.)
3. Now try to say something nice about the person you picked for answer number one.
4. Now list some of the biggest problems with the person you picked for answer number two.
5. How about first ladies? Who's your favorite first lady?
6. Who's more annoying: People who tediously tell you it isn't really called "Presidents' Day," or people who tediously tell you the Nobel Prize in economics isn't really a Nobel Prize?
My answers, just to stoke the debates in the comment thread:
1. Bush II.
3. I kind of like his paintings.
4. Iran, Guatemala, Operation Wetback.
5. Betty Ford.
6. This one stumps me, so I'll wrap up with a seasonal video instead:
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Mon, 25 Jan 2016 00:01:00 -0500When it comes to votes, the state of New York is a gold mine. In the 2012 presidential election, more than 11 million New Yorkers were registered. By itself, New York accounted for half of Barack Obama's margin of victory in the popular vote over Mitt Romney. You might think Republicans who want to win the White House this year would be trying to improve that performance by appealing to residents of the Empire State. But Ted Cruz is doing the opposite: He sneered that Donald Trump would be bad for America because he "embodies New York values." If Cruz gets the nomination, the state's residents, from Easthampton to Buffalo, won't forget the insult. But you know what? Cruz doesn't care. He has no reason to care. That's because of a curious artifact known as the Electoral College. The fact that a major candidate is happy to write off so many Americans is just one more piece of evidence that this system is a bad way to elect a president—and that both parties ought to make it a priority to abolish it. Under the Electoral College, we don't have a national election for president. We have 50 state elections, and nearly every one of them is winner-take-all. New York hasn't voted for a Republican for president since 1984—and even if Queens native Donald Trump heads the ticket, it won't do so this year. That means all 29 electoral votes will go to the Democrats. It makes no difference if the GOP nominee gets nearly 2.5 million votes in New York, as Romney did, or zero: The Electoral College effect is the same. Democrats have been ready to scrap this undemocratic system at least since 2000, when Al Gore outpolled George W. Bush but lost the election. The surprise is that Republicans have yet to come around. They don't seem to have noticed that the Electoral College now provides an advantage to the other party. In 2004, Bush got 3 million more votes than John Kerry—but if 60,000 votes had shifted Kerry's way in Ohio, he would have been president. In 2012, Republican strategist Matthew Dowd calculated that Romney could get a million more votes than Obama and lose. Eighteen states and the District of Columbia have voted Democratic in each of the past six presidential elections. They command 242 electoral votes—just 28 short of the 270 needed to win. Republicans have states that are just as loyal, but they number only 13, with just 102 electoral votes. To win, the GOP has to carry almost all of the battleground states. Partisan effects aside, there are plenty of reasons to retire this jerry-rigged antique. One is that this year's nominees will ignore vast hordes of voters in California, Texas, Illinois and other populous states where the outcome is not in doubt. Almost all of their campaign efforts will be made in a handful of decent-sized states, like Ohio, Florida, Virginia and Colorado, that could go either way. If you're in Boston, Nashville or Phoenix, you have as much chance of seeing a presidential candidate in person as you have of shooting pool with the Dalai Lama. Defenders of the Electoral College portray it as ingeniously designed to balance the multiplicity of interests in a large federal republic. In fact, it does nothing to strengthen federalism, since it confers no power on state governments. It doesn't protect small states, which get ignored. The framers, surprising as it may be, were fallible humans groping in the dark, a long time ago. Stanford historian Jack Rakove, author of a Pulitzer Prize-winning account of the Constitutional Convention, has said they "really had no good idea how the system would work." We do: Not that well. We tolerate this mechanism only because it almost always yields the same result as the popular vote. If it often did the opposite, it would be scrapped. But why run the risk every four years? If the formula behind the Electoral College were so inspired, we'd [...]
Mon, 18 Jan 2016 00:01:00 -0500In his State of the Union address, President Barack Obama lamented the deep divisions of our time and expressed regret that he hasn't done more to overcome them. His words had a nostalgic air, cloaked in memories of times when Americans were more united and less angry. "Democracy does require basic bonds of trust between its citizens," he said. "It doesn't work if we think the people who disagree with us are all motivated by malice. It doesn't work if we think that our political opponents are unpatriotic or trying to weaken America. Democracy grinds to a halt without a willingness to compromise or when even basic facts are contested or when we listen only to those who agree with us." If that were true, American democracy would have expired a long time ago. Accusing your political opponents of being malicious and unpatriotic is as American as the Super Bowl. Obama suggests that fierce hostilities are a new and ominous development. In fact, as Rice University historian Douglas Brinkley assured me, "American politics has been a mud-fest since the get-go." He's not exaggerating. In the 1800 presidential election, a Federalist newspaper warned that under Thomas Jefferson, "murder, robbery, rape, adultery and incest will be openly taught and practiced." When was this innocent age that we trusted and listened to each other with respect? Not the 1990s, when Bill Clinton was impeached, Hillary Clinton detected a "vast right-wing conspiracy" and Newt Gingrich urged GOP candidates to label their opponents with such terms as "corrupt," "sick" and "traitors." Not the 1980s, when Democrats reviled Ronald Reagan as a racist who hated the poor. Republicans charged that Democrats "always blame America first," and Pat Buchanan pronounced AIDS to be nature's revenge on gay men. Not the 1970s, which brought fierce battles over Vietnam, Watergate, Black Power and the Equal Rights Amendment. Not the 1960s, when assassinations, riots and bombings became a scary part of the political landscape. Not the 1950s, when President Harry Truman tried to seize steel mills, Joe McCarthy accused his opponents of being communists and President Dwight Eisenhower had to send troops to integrate a Little Rock high school. Not the 1940s, when our politics were so fractured that in the 1948 presidential election, the leftist Progressive Party and the white supremacist States' Rights Democratic Party each got more than 2 percent of the popular vote. Not the 1930s, when the Great Depression raised the specter that communism or fascism would take hold in America. There have been times when political passions cooled and parties cooperated toward broad goals, such as winning World War II and landing on the moon. Ideological fissures were less visible back when the two major parties had considerable overlap. Brinkley noted that in the 1960s, liberal Democrats and moderate Republicans joined in passing civil rights legislation. But the underlying conflicts were there, and they often boiled over. When segregationist George Wallace mounted a third-party presidential campaign in 1968, he got 13 percent of the vote and carried five states. After National Guard troops killed four students at an anti-war protest at Kent State University in 1970, a Gallup Poll found that most people blamed the students. Americans have always been more pluribus than unum, separated by region, income, race, ethnicity and religion. That's why the nation nearly collapsed under the Articles of Confederation—and actually split apart during the Civil War. The centrifugal forces have persisted through centuries. A 2014 Reuters poll found that 23.9 percent of Americans would like to see their state secede from the union. The past seven years have been polarized, but not appreciably more than the preceding ones. In December 2008, 62 p[...]
Tue, 12 Jan 2016 12:25:00 -0500
The White House claims that tonight's State of the Union address will be "untraditional." Like Scott Shackford, I doubt it'll be very different from past SOTUs, but even if it is, I'll be deeply surprised if it's different enough. As I've written before, the president's annual speech is a tradition we'd be better off without:
(image) Thomas Jefferson considered it "kingly" to deliver his State of the Union report as a speech, so he sent the Senate and the House some written comments instead. Woodrow Wilson, never reluctant to play king, brought back the speechifying in 1913, and the modern custom of addressing a joint session of Congress was born.
The state of the actual union has improved in many ways in the century since then, but State of the Union addresses have kept heading downhill. Calvin Coolidge reversed many of Wilson's kingly policies, eventually including the oral address; before then, though, he made the mistake of broadcasting it on the radio, expanding the crown's audience even further. FDR brought back the speech (and the broadcast), the show came to TV in the Truman years...[a]nd then, just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, Ronald Reagan added the element of singling out people to praise in the audience, thus seasoning the bland proceedings with the flavor of a high school assembly. I'm trying hard to think of a way the State of the Union tradition has improved since FDR, and all I can come up with is the invention of cable TV: Now at least there's something else to watch.
I'll be MSTing the speech on Twitter with the rest of the Reason crew; if you want to check out the spectacle tonight, you're invited to tune in to us too. But if you prefer to skip the whole thing and just skim the SOTU transcript tomorrow for traces of news, I won't blame you. Be the change we're waiting for.
Mon, 12 Oct 2015 14:50:00 -0400
(image) Alexander P. Butterfield, the Nixon aide who revealed the existence of the president's White House tapes, thought he might write a memoir one day. So when he left his job, The Washington Post reports, he took boxes of documents with him, "everything from routine chronologies and memos to some top-secret exchanges with Kissinger and a few highly classified CIA bulletins."
He never did write that memoir, but he got Bob Woodward to write his story for him; Woodward's Butterfield book, The Last of the President's Men, is being released this week. Butterfield says he plans to deposit the documents in an archive.
I haven't seen the book, but the Post piece is pretty interesting. On the policy side, it shows Richard Nixon writing to Henry Kissinger that although the U.S. had enjoyed "10 years of total control of the air in Laos and V.Nam," the results had been "Zilch." This note came a day after Nixon told CBS that the bombing had "been very, very effective." It's a blunt case of Nixon lying for political gain.
On the personal side, Butterfield apparently paints a portrait of the president as a strange man. Here's an excerpt from the Post story:
Nixon dropped by a birthday party for Paul Keyes, a comedy writer and Nixon friend who had helped on the 1968 campaign. When Nixon entered the room, there was an unnatural hush. No one offered a handshake or a glass of wine. Nixon seemed at a loss. Keyes was wearing a solid green blazer. "Ah, ah, ah...uh," Nixon muttered, according to Woodward's account. "Then Nixon pointed down at the carpet, a worn, faded maroon. He spoke in a deep but barely audible voice. 'Green coat...red rug...Christmas colors.' He then wheeled around and strode out of the room to the Oval Office."
Woodward says Butterfield felt that "Nixon was quickly becoming the oddest man he'd ever known."
Are there yet more caches of Nixon-era material out there, waiting to be brought to light? Apparently so. According to the Post, "Butterfield, now 89, was in charge of preventing other Nixon staffers from leaving the White House with government documents, but he saw many, including the late Nixon counselor Arthur Burns, haul away boxes when they left."
Bonus link: I'm more interested in the prospect of these documents landing in an archive than the prospect of a new Bob Woodward book. This is why.
Mon, 12 Oct 2015 00:01:00 -0400When Dwight Eisenhower was first mentioned as a possible candidate for president in 1948, House Speaker Sam Rayburn offered a pithy assessment: "Good man but wrong business." Today it's clear that few of the White House's occupants have been more right for the job. Eisenhower was the last president born in the 19th century—125 years ago this week. He governed during the 1950s, a decade that now seems hopelessly anachronistic. But our experience since then illuminates virtues he had that have grown more valuable as they have become rarer. In office, he was disparaged on both the left and the right. Conservative pundit William F. Buckley said Ike was "undaunted by principle, unchained by any coherent ideas as to the nature of man and society." To Democrats, he was the antithesis of Adlai Stevenson, whom they regarded as "the voice of a reasonable, civilized, elevated America," in the words of liberal historian Arthur Schlesinger. What looked like defects then look better now. He ended one war, in Korea, and began no new ones. He balanced the federal budget three times and reduced the federal debt as a share of gross domestic product. He cut spending in inflation-adjusted dollars. He steered his party away from McCarthyism. Inspiring speeches were not his thing. His supporters said "I like Ike," not "I revere Ike." Unlike Theodore Roosevelt, he resisted using the presidency as a "bully pulpit." He lacked the grand ambitions of Franklin Roosevelt. Critics who saw him as a do-nothing despaired at his popularity with the American people. Richard Strout wrote in The New Republic, "The less he does the more they love him." A public with fresh memories of the Great Depression and World War II wanted tranquility, not transformation. Eisenhower wasn't averse to action when it was required. But he showed a keen appreciation of limits—the limits of military power, the federal government's competence and the role of the president. He had a sense of perspective rooted in the perils he had overcome as supreme commander of Allied forces in Europe during World War II. When he traveled to give the commencement address in 1954 at Penn State University, where his brother was president, downpours forced the huge event indoors. Milton apologized, but Ike smiled and said he hadn't worried about rain since it threatened to impede the Normandy invasion. He would not be spooked into rash decisions. When France was losing a war in Vietnam, he declined to send U.S. forces to help an ally—and he quashed a proposal by the Joint Chiefs of Staff to use nuclear weapons. "You boys must be crazy," was his reply. When the Soviets sent troops to crush an uprising in Hungary in 1956, some conservatives wanted action to roll back the communist empire. Eisenhower sent a letter asking the Soviets to withdraw. They didn't. While championing NATO as a bulwark against Moscow, he pushed for the rearmament of West Germany to reduce the American load. He warned against excessive arms spending promoted by the "military-industrial complex." On the occasions that he took regrettable steps abroad, he at least minimized risks to Americans. After unfriendly governments gained power in Iran and Guatemala, he used covert action by the CIA, not military invasions, to overthrow them. No one would argue that Eisenhower, who advised blacks to practice "patience and forbearance," did enough for racial equality. But he ended segregation in Veterans Administration hospitals and in schools on military bases. He pushed through the first civil rights act since Reconstruction. When the governor of Arkansas defied a court order to admit blacks to a public school in Little Rock, Ike sent the 101st Airborne Division to enforce it—provok[...]
Fri, 28 Aug 2015 00:01:00 -0400If we could only stop thinking about Warren G. Harding's sleazy sex life, writes historian James D. Robenalt in The Washington Post, we'd realize that "[t]his man was a pretty good president." But unfortunately for the 29th president's reputation, Robenalt argues, Harding's coat-closet relationship with Nan Britton and his affair with Carrie Phillips (who blackmailed him) have overwhelmed any appreciation of his achievements: his success in stabilizing the country following World War I, his attempts to address civil rights, his arms-control efforts, and so on. Worse for Harding's rep, the sex continues to be news: This month, DNA tests finally confirmed Nan Britton's assertion that Harding was the father of her daughter, a claim made quite publicly in her notorious 1928 book, The President's Daughter. Of course, if we didn't remember the sex, we'd remember Teapot Dome, though Robenalt argues that Harding himself had nothing to do with the infamous scandal. And if it's not the sex or the scandals, there's always the juicy (if discredited) claim that Harding was poisoned by his own wife, a story that hasn't helped Harding's stature, either. Robenalt doesn't bother with the poisoning, but the historian does address the persistent rumors about Harding's race. "[I]f you want to really unbundle Harding's negative reputation," writes Robenalt, "you have to understand that he was charged in the 1920 campaign with having an African-American ancestor." That's a claim that has never gone away, and has figured prominently in Harding biographies, such as the popular 1968 book, The Shadow of Blooming Grove. ("The "shadow," writes Robenalt, "was the persistent rumor that his family from Blooming Grove, Ohio, had black blood.") That claim has also been the main support for a whole branch of underground, often-amateur historical pamphleteering about presidential racial secrets, the most famous example of which is certainly Joel A. Rogers' 1965 booklet, The Five Negro Presidents. Rogers (1883-1966) was a black author who wrote a lot of books on race, most of them self-published. A recurring theme in his work is that numerous historical figures who are (or once were) widely perceived to have been of European ancestry were really black, or at least not white, according to one-drop rules of whiteness. Frequently, as when he wrote of people like Alexandre Dumas and Alexander Pushkin, he was right. Other times, as in the case of Cleopatra, he wasn't. Much of his writing is founded on a theory of the "Great Black Men of History"; Rogers believed it refuted the widespread bigotry that assumed racial inferiority. The full title of his booklet about presidents is The Five Negro Presidents: According to What White People Said They Were, thus announcing up front that he's 1) merely compiling what some white people have said about other (purportedly) white people; 2) not offering any primary sources or documentary evidence in support these claims; and implying that 3) he's not responsible for gossip-mongering among whites. Rogers' cover image is of Warren Harding, inset with a portrait of a black man identified as President Harding's "paternal grand-uncle, Oliver Harding." Rogers' case for Warren Harding's Negritude is drawn from the 1920 campaign material, condensed in a widely-circulated mimeographed sheet, and published full-length as a book entitled Warren G. Harding, President of the United States, by William Estabrook Chancellor, a professor at Wooster College. Chancellor's book featured affidavits from people in Harding's home town of in Marion, Ohio, who swore to have known all their lives that Harding was a member of a black family. One local black journalist is cited as saying that when Harding first ran for office, he himself claimed to be blac[...]
Fri, 14 Aug 2015 10:43:00 -0400DNA tests have reportedly confirmed one longstanding rumor about Warren Harding, America's least bad president of the 20th century, while putting another rumor to rest. First the confirmation: It looks like Harding did indeed have a love child with one of his mistresses, Nan Britton. Britton claimed to have carried on an affair with Harding in her 1928 book The President's Daughter, published five years after Harding died in office. The accusation's effect on Harding's reputation can be seen in a passage from Frederick Lewis Allen's Only Yesterday, the book that may have done more than any other text to shape Americans' memories of the '20s. Harding's private life, Allen writes, was one of cheap sex episodes; as one reads the confessions of his mistress, who claims that as President he was supporting an illegitimate baby born hardly a year before his election, one is struck by the shabbiness of the whole affair: the clandestine meetings in disreputable hotels, in the Senate Office Building (where Nan Britton believed their child to have been conceived), and even in a coat-closet in the executive offices of the White House itself. (Doubts have been cast upon the truth of the story told in The President's Daughter, but is it easy to imagine any one making up out of whole cloth a supposedly autobiographical story compounded of such ignoble adventures?) Even making due allowance for the refraction of Harding's personality through that of Nan Britton, one sees with deadly clarity the essential ordinariness of the man, the commonness of his "Gee, dearie" and "Say, you darling," his being swindled out of a hundred dollars by card sharpers on a train ride, his naive assurance to Nan, when detectives broke in upon them in a Broadway hotel, that they could not be arrested because it was illegal to detain a Senator while "en route to Washington to serve the people." Warren Harding's ambitious wife had tailored and groomed him into outward respectability and made a man of substance of him; yet even now, after he had reached the White House, the rowdies of the Ohio gang were fundamentally his sort. He had risen above them, he could mingle urbanely with their superiors, but it was in the smoke filled rooms of the house in H Street that he was really most at home. The flipside of this is that Harding rolled back Woodrow Wilson's war state, releasing Eugene Debs and other political prisoners; was pretty good on civil rights, making a push for an anti-lynching bill; reduced taxes; advanced international disarmament; and adopted fiscal policies that allowed the country to quickly weather the slump of 1921. His presidency had its problems—several of his appointees were corrupt, he erected new barriers to trade and immigration, and he sent federal troops to suppress a strike in West Virginia—but all in all, I have to prefer the small-town ordinariness that Allen mocked over the messianic ambition of the men who typically get praised as great presidents. On to the other rumor. The New York Times reports that the DNA tests "also found that President Harding had no ancestors from sub-Saharan Africa, answering another question that has intrigued historians. When Harding ran for president in 1920, segregationist opponents claimed he had 'black blood.'" This news comes as a bit of a blow to me, if only because Harding's alleged African ancestry played a role in one of my favorite novels, Ishmael Reed's Mumbo Jumbo. Are there any Harding mysteries left? Well, there's the dubious tale that he was secretly inducted into the Ku Klux Klan in the White House Green Room. That claim is hard to credit in light of Harding's public attitude toward the Klan (he accused the group of "misguided zeal and unreasoning malice") [...]
Fri, 15 May 2015 13:01:00 -0400
One of my favorite political ads wasn't actually aired during the race for which it was made. You'll see why the campaign decided to veto it when you reach the 2:32 mark:
frameborder="0" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8mILEkcrHvQ" height="315" width="420">
That was the sound of a cherry bomb, but Ford—who had survived two assassination attempts—obviously thought it was gunfire. Not content to unsettle viewers by showing them that, the narrator goes on to offer this pitch for the president: "When a limousine can parade openly through the streets of Dallas, there's a change that's come over America."
1976. When expectations were low.
(For past editions of the Friday A/V Club, go here.)
Fri, 20 Feb 2015 11:16:00 -0500How did Timothy McVeigh, O.J. Simpson, Monica Lewinsky, and the Netscape IPO all shape the word we live in today? American University professor of journalism W. Joseph Campbell sat down with Reason TV's Nick Gillespie to discuss the misunderstood, often nostalgized, and wildly underappreciated decade of the 1990s in his new book, 1995: The Year the Future Began. Campbell argues that the last years of the millenium were much more than a "holiday from history" as we awaited the terror attacks of 9/11. From the dawn of the Internet to the post-Cold War complexities of foreign policy, the 1990s set the stage for the most enduring issues of the 21st century. Runs about 26 minutes. Produced by Todd Krainin. Interview by Nick Gillespie. Cameras by Meredith Bragg and Krainin. Scroll down for downloadable versions and subscribe to ReasonTV's YouTube Channel to receive notification when new material goes live. INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS reason: You talk about 1995, 20 years ago, as a clear starting point for contemporary life, a hinge moment, and the first year of the 21st century. What do you mean by that? Campbell: Well it was a year of multiple watersheds really, and these watersheds add up to the recognition that this was a decisive year, this was the inaugural year really of the 21st century. It was the year in which we can recognize a lot of the elements of what we live with now, so it was really the year the future began, and the watersheds that I discuss in the book include the rise of the Internet. Now the Internet wasn’t invented in 1995, but it entered the mainstream consciousness. reason: Talk a little bit about the signal events that made it. The web had been around a few years, the Internet for a couple of decades, but, so there was, for instance, the Netscape IPO. Campbell: That’s right. The Netscape IPO in August of 1995, was really a moment that illuminated the web for a lot of people. Netscape of course made a fantastic browser, and it was very popular. The company had only been in existence for a year and a half when it had this IPO, and it went through the roof literally, and the shares were incredibly important and valuable, and Netscape showed that some people could make money on the internet, but more importantly, it illuminated the web for a lot of people who weren’t familiar with it and weren’t aware. reason: It seems so long ago, because Netscape’s fortunes—we might as well be talking about A&P or Sears Roebuck or something. Campbell: Exactly. The trajectory of Netscape was even briefer than that. It was from like 1994 to 1999. So it really was meteoric, and it became a terrific property. It was a terrific company. And it embraced a lot of the swagger and potential of the web. reason: Marc Andreessen, one of the co-founders of Netscape. If Jim Morrison was the ultimate, first real rock star, Andreessen was the first real web star. Campbell: Exactly. And I wish I had said that for the book. It happens to be accurate. He really was. And he was really in his early 20s, just out of college when he co-founded Netscape. He and his partners recruited some of his buddies from the University of Illinois, where he had developed a browser before coming to California to start up Netscape, and these guys made a new browser that was wildly popular. reason: These guys were somewhat trenched in history. They were coming out of a tradition, but it was mostly that they were young and looking forward and weren’t going to play by the old rules. Campbell: In many respects, that’s true. And they were kind of setting their own rules, and the Internet allowed people to do that, because nobody knew what this was going t[...]