Wreckonomics 101

Somewhere between my second and third cuppa down at the Cozy this morning, the conversation at the mossback table turned, as it is wont to do, to matters financial. As the bloviating gained momentum it became startlingly obvious that the level of economic savvy around the table stood somewhere between vanishingly small and non-existent. This is not meant as deprecation of my caffeine-fueled buddies’ cognitive abilities (we’re a reasonably astute bunch; most of us even remember to zip up … most of the time). I only point out that the complexities, inconsistencies and downright obscurations of the jargon associated with macroeconomics renders it well-nigh impossible for anyone with less than a post-doctoral econ degree to even discuss the subject coherently. Given the (seemingly) purposely obtuse language with which it is festooned, rational discourse on the subject is a bit like piloting the Millenium Falcon blindfolded at warp speed through a meteor swarm while simultaneously reciting ‘Evangeline‘ in Swahili – backwards.

OK – maybe it’s not that tough … but it’s close. Today’s news accounts, as well as more (allegedly) scholarly in-depth reportage (think The Economist) fairly bristle with mondo-economic argot. One is deluged with buzzwords-du-jour, like “stagflation“, “deflation“, “aggregate demand“, “liquidity trap“, “deficit vs national debt“, and on, and on …. To compound the confusion, within different channels of economic thought (e.g., Keynesian adherents as opposed to the so-called Austrian school) disparate meanings are assigned to identical terms! And We The People are supposed to grok this stuff?? Well … actually … no; Uncle Sugar and his merry band of pranksters, gangsters, and banksters (about whom more later) are hoping that we won’t spend the time or effort to understand, really understand, what they are about. But I think it’s time we did just that. So what say, Mel – hitch up your colostomy bag – let’s gather up some know-how and put a little geezer smackdown on these MBA’d whippersnappers.

Over the next few posts, the old bunny will attempt to make the crooked way a little straighter; it’s not that complicated when sprinkled with a bit of plain speaking and common sense. Let’s start with a few definitions:

Monetary Policy: this refers to the process by which the gubmint, through the Federal Reserve, controls the actual physical supply of money (meaning real bills and coins moving around amongst the folks, as well as certain demand deposits like checking & savings accounts), and the cost of money (meaning interest rates). Monetary policy is used (at least theoretically) to effect contraction (make less money available and/or raise interest rates) or expansion (more money and lower rates) of the economy. We’ll talk later about those situations in which conventional wisdom inexplicably holds that uncritical and imprudent tinkering with elemental financial substructures is a good idea.

The first (supply) is regulated by the simple expedient of making more money available through printing/minting more of the stuff, and/or releasing previously sequestered stocks. A more technical, but not significantly more useful, breakdown of money supply is the “M” nomenclature, outlined briefly below. Note: if you choose to ignore the whole “M” spiel, and think of money supply simply as all the money available for spending, plus all the money being saved, you will have grasped 99.9% of the idea.

M0: money in circulation and in bank vaults, plus reserves which commercial banks hold in their accounts with the central bank

M1: includes funds that are available for spending, such as 1) currency outside the U.S. Treasury, Federal Reserve Banks, and the vaults of depository institutions; 2) traveler’s checks of nonbank issuers (like Amex and Postal money orders); 3) demand deposits (checking accounts); and 4) other checkable deposits like so-called NOW accounts (“negotiable order of withdrawal” interest-bearing savings account against which drafts may be written).

M2: Equals M1 plus savings deposits, time deposits of less than $100,000 and individual money market accounts

M3: Equals M2 plus large (>$100,000) time deposits and institutional money-market funds.

The other main aspect of monetary policy – cost of money – is simply the rate of interest at which money can be borrowed from someone in the business of loaning it. A common misapprehension about interest rates is that they are set by the market; this is only derivatively true – the basis of all interest rates is the “federal funds rate“, the interest rate that banks charge each other for overnight transfers necessary to satisfy reserve funding requirements (banks are required by law to maintain a certain amount of money on the premises, usually related to the amount of liability to which they are subject).

This fed funds rate is dictated by the “Federal Open Market Committee“, a functional unit of the Federal Reserve and made up of a group of twelve high-finance goomers in twenty five hundred dollar suits, all irreversibly possessed of the laughable notion that they can foretell the future. The FOMC meets eight times per year to consider, among other things, whether or not to mess with interest rates. The rate is jiggered (or not) ostensibly to nudge the economy in whatever direction is deemed desirable, but, in reality, the motives for rate manipulation are usually much more recondite, and rarely, if ever, completely knowable to the public at large.

The far better known “prime rate” customarily runs approximately 300 “basis points” (3%) above the fed funds rate. Whatever effect the market has on interest rates available to ordinary customers comes into play after the prime rate is set. A lender may choose to compete for business by charging lower rates than others, but the rate will virtually always be above the prime rate.

So the Federal Open Market Committee (usually referred to simply as the “Fed”) wields enormous (and, astonishingly, unreviewable) dominion over the entire national financial milieu. Let me say that again – decisions taken by the Fed are, by law, not subject to veto, or even meaningful scrutiny or revision … by anyone! It is conceivable that the President could take the Federal Reserve Chairman to the woodshed … but short of jawboning or outright replacement, there is little the Prez can do. To quote Mel Brooks – “It’s good to be king.”

UPDATE: I am gently reminded by my buddy TH that Brooks’ quote was really, “It’s good to be da king” … and of course he is correct. Please know that I would never intentionally misquote anyone – especially Mel Brooks.

That’s monetary policy for plain folks; next time we’ll look at “Fiscal Policy” – which is a whole other thang ….

Be well.

Wiggily on Sotomayor

I read with some interest this morn of the Senate Judiciary Committee’s approval of Sonia Sotomayor’s pending elevation to the SCOTUS … not because I give a rat’s back whether Ms. Sotomayor succeeds or fails in her attempt to gain a nifty new black robe and a high-backed, tucked-and-rolled leather, ergonomically designed chair (I don’t), but because I find the dynamics of high-level political machination fascinating. The final Committee vote was 13 – 6, pretty much a straight party line vote, with only one Republican (Lindsay Graham, R-SC) voting for confirmation. Long ago, when assaying the words and actions of politicians ostensibly concerned only with the public weal, I adopted a simple strategem of asking “Cui bono”? (“Who benefits?”), and the question is pertinent here.

Re the Sotomayor vote, cui bono?

Well, for openers, it would seem that the judge herownself certainly comes out well … after all “Associate Justice, United States Supreme Court” will look kind of splendiferous on a resume, not to mention there’s a hefty bounce in take-home pay and a health insurance plan to die for (no pun intended). But that’s the easy part of the question … drilling down into the data we find several CB’s that are not so immediately obvious; a number of aspects puzzle me, such as …

Why did Lindsay Graham come out early and ardent for Her Honor? Graham’s traditional conservative credentials are as sound as any in the Senate; he is multiply on record in opposition to Sotomayor’s apparent positions relating to several signate issues (abortion, affirmative action, court activism). Moreover, it is difficult to adduce any potential risk to his re-election chances. Even if a nay vote would be seen as “anti-Hispanic”, South Carolina’s Hispanic population is around 4% – hardly enough to put even a small dent in Lindsay’s rousing popularity in his home state.

Also, I was surprised that both Kyl (R-AZ) and Cornyn (R-TX) voted ‘nay’, given the fact that Hispanic constituencies in their states are huge – 30% and 36%, respectively. It is true that both have been surprisingly soft on illegal immigration considering that they represent states that share a border with Mexico, and both won their last elections handily (>10% margin), so perhaps neither figured that they have a “Hispanic/Latino” problem, or at least not one that a “no” vote on Sotomayor would significantly exacerbate. Time will tell.

Also just barely noteworthy was Orrin Hatch’s nay. Utah has a 12% (and growing) Hispanic population, but Sen. Hatch just slapped all the ass off his last opponent (62% to 31%), so he could probably vote to outlaw Cinco de Maya, Chevy Low-Riders, Dos Equis and pink plastic flamingos without suffering any noticeable electoral damage.

The other votes, both Dem and Rep, were as ideologically predictable as sunshine in Mazatlan, and are surely indicative of the final whole Senate vote to come next week. Welcome to the Supremes, Madame Judge.

So, as we asked at the outset, “cui bono?” Besides Sonia, hard to say … but I will be watching for assorted succubi, incubi, beasties and gremlins to start circling the 3 senators discussed above.

And finally, in the Utterly Politically Incorrect category, may I just note that the thing about Her Judgeship that bothers me the most – more than her liberal record, more than her documented passion for judicial activism, even more than her atrocious unkempt ‘do – is the way we all are expected to pronounce her surname. Soe-toe-my-ORE. Say what? Uh – here’s the thing, Son-ya … this is the United States of America, where English is the official language – at least for arguments before the highest court in the land. You wanna play, put on the whole uniform.

I used to have a French-Canadian buddy whose name was “George”. We called him, at his behest, “Jorj” – not “Gay-ORG-uh”. I worked with a Cuban whose Christian name was “Jesus” … we called him “JEE-zus”, and, occasionally, “Jake” … not “Hay-ZOOS”. And finally, I know a helluva fine Hispanic furniture-maker whose last name is “Sotomayer’ … and even he pronounces it “SAWta-my-er”.

I’m just sayin’ …

Be well.

Good advice …

My son-in-law sent me the following list of country aphorisms; I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

* Build your fences horse-high, pig-tight and bull-strong.

* Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.

* A bumble bee moves faster than a John Deere tractor.

* Words that soak into your ears are whispered – not yelled.

* Do not corner something that you know is meaner than you.

* It don’t take a very big person to carry a grudge.

* You cannot ‘unring’ a bell, nor ‘unsay’ a cruel word.

* Every path has a few puddles.

* When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.

* The best sermons are lived, not preached.

* Most of the stuff people worry about ain’t never gonna happen anyway..

* Don’t judge folks by their relatives.

* Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.

* Live a good, honorable life. When you get older and think back, you’ll enjoy it a second time.

* Don’t interfere with somethin’ that ain’t botherin’ you none.

* Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance.

* If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin’.

* Chicken today, feathers tomorrow – sometimes you get, and sometimes you get got.

* The biggest troublemaker you’ll ever have to deal with watches you from the mirror every mornin’.

* Always drink upstream from the herd.

* Good judgment comes from experience and most experience comes from bad judgment.

* Lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back in.

* If you get to thinkin’ you’re a person of some influence, try orderin’ somebody else’s dog around.

* Don’t pick a fight with an old man. Craft and guile will beat youth and exuberance every time.

* Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Leave the rest to God.

By the way, the last one is not only good homespun advice – it is right out of the Good Book and has long been just about my favorite scriptural quote.  Me and Mrs. Wiggily even had it read at our wedding. Check it out – sixth chapter of Micah, verse 8.

Be well.

‘On gorers and gorees’, or ‘Recognizing the bull’

It should come as no surprise to any that, like every other segment of the population, doctors have their price. One is reminded of the wag who offered an attractive lady twenty dollars for, ah, intimate favors and was promptly, and heatedly, rebuffed; so he asked if she might be interested for ten million dollars and she indicated she would consider it – which  prompted him to retort, “OK, we have established what you are – all we’re arguing about now is price.”

The American Medical Association, which represents virtually all the doctors in the land, has signed on to Obamacare in a breathtaking, if not historical, philosophical arabesque. Their price? 245 billion (with a “B”) dollars. Oh, the AMA is making the expected noises touting other alleged salubrious aspects of the Barack-y Road to Health and Well-being, such as “expansion of health care coverage” and “elimination of denials for pre-existing conditions”, but these are chimeras. Such features were already part of the legislation before the $245 billion sweetener was added – it seems clear that the real motivator is the money.

Having said that, I hasten to point out that 245 plus nine zero’s is a significant mess of pottage, and I find it difficult, if not downright sanctimonious, to be too critical of the docs. I have an uncomfortable feeling that if The One offered booksellers a 12-figure stipend to support a particular piece of legislation, I might feel constrained to do so.

Point is, we are all whores, at least potentially, and to rail against the acquisitive aspect of our nature is to deny that which is real. What should command our derision is the galloping readiness of the statists-in-charge to exploit inherent human frailty, instead of offering sound policy initiatives. Leadership that seeks to capitalize on the limbic goblins resident in all of us instead of appealing to higher facilities also present in (most) of us, such as thrift, integrity, personal responsibility, loyalty, to name just a few, will inevitably devolve to that lowest common denominator of governance – what the Romans called ‘Bread and Circuses’.

To re-focus – our health care system has a lot of problems, but a heaping helping of federal (or state, or local) gubmint most assuredly is not the solution to any of them. We are obsessing over health care costs, when what should be engaging our attention are ways to get more value for our health care dollar – and the most effective mechanism for determining true value ever devised is still the free market system. Establish a value-driven health care system and costs will drop like a gut-shot horse thief – but that’s a little too simple for today’s poll-driven pols. After all, isn’t good health an inalienable right? Well … no – but that’s a discussion for another time.

I am acquainted with several physicians – some are good friends and good folks, others, notsomuch. None of that matters much in the current squalor that is the health care debate – it is simply the docs’ turn at the trough, and it’s hard to fault them for bellying up.

Be well.

All the sweet serenity of books -Longfellow-

One of the manifold joys of being mostly retired and a purveyor of books (“Gently Used & Collectible“) is that it affords me generous opportunity to sample my own wares. I do not mean to imply that my existence is an endless idyll of literary foraging – after all, some one has to haggle for the books, price the books, shelve the books, dust the books, collect money for the books … you get the idea – but stuck away in most days there is usually an orphaned hour or two that can be scavenged for the sheer, shivery pleasure of sitting down with a good book.

Daily faced, as I am, with a belletristic smorgasbord, one must either arrive at a strategy to effectively cull the field, i.e., separate the grain from the chaff, or face the prospect of spending significant amounts of time perusing unacceptable writing. I have developed a formula (I call it the the Wiggily Scrutinies) that I herewith share, at no charge and with no obligation, with any who may, as I, periodically suffer from a surfeit of literary possibility. While it may not screen out all the dross, it will at least ensure that minimal time is devoted to the truly distasteful. Said canon is simplicity itself, and operates like this: subtract your age from 90 – the result specifies the number of pages you must read in any book you start before you are allowed to bail on it. If its worthwhile, you will know it – if it hasn’t tickled your literary fun-spot by then, pitch that turkey and move on.

For those elements of my readership who are arithmetically uncatechized, here’s an example: I am 68 years young, which means when I start a book, I should read at least 22 pages (90 – 68 = 22) before consigning it to the dumpster. Note that as you get older, the “yuck threshold” decreases until, at age 90, it reaches zero – at which point you are officially entitled to judge a book by its cover.

One caveat – there are some literary works afield that are so dreadful that they may induce certain alarming effects even before the WS scoring system operates to alert the reader – manifestations like irrepressible projectile vomiting, a sensation that one’s head is about to implode, and/or descent into a deep comatose state. I speak of works such as “The Bridges of Madison County“, any of Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry (though be aware his prose is quite safe), the novels of Susan Sonntag, virtually all “chick lit”, anything associated with the words “Reader’s Digest“, and anything written by Robert Heinlein after (and including) “Stranger in a Strange Land“.

Here is an incomplete listing of things I have sampled lately, with associated and (highly) opinionated comments:

Ken Kesey’s “Demon Box” – thoughtfully provided to me by a good friend who knows I am a fan. I have long held that Kesey’s “Sometimes a Great Notion” is among the very best American novels of the last half century; sadly, this one fails abjectly to come even close to that great opus. It is a collection of brief accounts (one quails at calling them ’short stories’) that are neither self-absorbed enough to offer pseudo-psychological redemption, nor accessible enough to qualify as objective fictive efforts. All stirred together with a contrived and utterly gratuitous coarseness. At the end of the requisite 22 pages I quite happily withdrew.

“Overdrive“, by W.F. Buckley – another tour de force by the undisputed king of bon mot. It reads like a butterscotch sundae eats. Read this book, even if you, as many do, despise Buckley. This little treasure has been around since the early 80’s but I somehow missed it … my loss.

Khaled Hosseini’s “The Kite Runner” – strange thing – this is a wildly popular book – I absolutely cannot keep it on the shelves – but … I didn’t get it. Tried nearly 50 pages, was still going, “Huh…?”, so I hung it up. Maybe you’ll react differently ….

Arthur Schlesinger’s three volume “The Age of Roosevelt“, consisting of The Crisis of the Old Order: 1919-1933, The Coming of the New Deal: 1933-1935, and The Politics of Upheaval: 1935-1936. Schlesinger is arguably the ablest of  the Old Order Liberal apologists, which understandably colors much of his work, but he also has undeniable historiographical chops, and uses them to excellent advantage in this work. If you really want to know what happened (from the inside) during the early years of the New Deal, this is your ticket.

As a final offering, allow me to commend to you Victor Davis Hanson’s “Who Killed Homer?“, which I am only about halfway through, but am literally a-quiver to get back to. VDH is a true renaissance man in an age that has witnessed scandalous overuse of that hoary term. To quote Wiki, he is a military historian, columnist, political essayist and former classics professor. A few years ago he elected to abjure the vicissitudes of academia and decamped to a grape farm near Fresno, California, where he divides his commodious talents between viticulture and writing. This book deplores the growing lack of true classical (in the Latin and Greek sense) instruction available in most preparatory schools, colleges and universities, and develops sensible and well-grounded theories as to how said dearth promises to affect our culture and politics as the next several decades unfold. Spoiler alert: non-Conservatives (especially those of the sub-genus academe) will likely loathe this book’s premises, but, as with Buckley above, the quality of the writing alone makes it a fruitful exercise.

Nuffa this – it’s time to go to the drag races ….

Be well.

Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear

Shakespeare’s line above fits with my melancholy errand this morning – I collected the ashes of an old and dear friend from the crematorium. As seems to be de rigueur for missions such as this, the weather was wet and dreary … to match, I suppose, my disconsolate self. Gone not yet three days and the itch of his absence promises to defy scratching for a long time. Boon companion, listener of endless patience and a peerless judge of character – which is to say he tolerated me and tended generally to love those that I love.

Have I mentioned he was a cat? I can say that aloud now, having been precluded from any such overt declaration for the more than fifteen years he graced my life; you see, Beanie did not know he was a cat. He thought he was just a short, fuzzy, black-and-white person; it was, as far as I am aware, the only thing he ever got wrong – and we made a family pact years ago to avoid disabusing him of that notion.

I remember the day we brought him home from the animal shelter; he was, quite literally, of a size to fit comfortably in the palm of one hand. Upon entering our (soon to be his) house, he made a detailed inspection of the entire place, marching about, his tail stiffly upright like a tiny flagpole, and, after pronouncing the premises fit for habitation, curled up in a small wooden bowl that we kept on the hearth for decorative purposes and dropped instantly into a sound sleep. At that moment I knew we had found a cat for the ages.

He grew easily, magically into a sleek and supple specimen of advanced catness; as an adult, he could stand on his hind feet and easily stretch up to nearly a yard of pure feline grace – a position he often assumed against my leg when he wanted to tell me something, or needed a snack, or just wanted to say “hey”.

He was many things – faultless alarm clock (he expected, demanded, that breakfast be in his dish, ready for consumption, by seven AM). On the few occasions when this didn’t occur he would stand outside the bedroom door and remind me remorselessly that, even though he ordinarily didn’t make a fuss, he retained a remarkable talent in that area.

He also was a mighty hunter (though he lacked claws, and later, thanks to many years of soft food and soft living, most of his teeth). His lack of normal feline defenses notwithstanding he would daily patrol the few feet of flowering bushes adjacent to our front door with martial aplomb, except when forced to flee the hectoring of an unusually militant sparrow or butterfly.

He was of scrupulous personal habits – so fastidious in fact that, should he be caught short by pressing biological needs while outdoors, he would re-enter the house, perform his duty in his personal kitty loo, and then go back outside to resume whatever exigencies had been occupying his considerable abilities. In all his time with us he never – not once! – ever defiled a floor or carpet, lawn or sidewalk – though, admittedly, he would occasionally gift us with the odd hairball.

His christian name was “Guy” – an appellation bestowed on him by our daughter, who arrived at that particular monicker by an arcane process understandable only to five-year-olds. He was usually called “Beanie”, though the genesis of this sobriquet is similarly obscured by the mists of time. “Guy” tended to be used in those instances where discipline, or at least warning of same, was called for – as in, “Guy – don’t make me come in there”  (he usually didn’t) or “Guy – you better be home by midnight”. (He always was).

It has been said that dogs have owners, while cats have staff. This is largely true, but, in Beanie’s case, he was much loved by his servants and, in turn, he treated us very well indeed. I miss him greatly … but I take comfort in the sure knowledge that God now has a cat worthy of Him.

Be well.

Lies, Damned Lies … and Emails

There is a discontinuous prehension extant today that traditional (“Conservative”, “Republican”, whatever) attitudes and influences are on the wane in American society, and, allegedly, in Western society as a whole. Whether or not this is true is a discussion for another time and place, but what is certain, in a very much larger sense, is that any dialectic making use of provably false assertions is ultimately doomed, and those who purposely employ shoddy logic, erroneous assumptions, and even blatant falsehood, do their cause significant disservice in the end.

A disturbing example of this kind of discursive chicanery is an email currently making the rounds concerning a particularly pernicious piece of potential gun-control legislation; HR 45 – The Blair Holt Firearm Licensing and Record of Sale Act of 2009.

As an immediate order of business, let me state hurriedly and categorically that I am an unapologetic supporter of 2nd Amendment rights, as manifested by a rigorously strict interpretation of said amendment. I own guns, I shoot guns, and I believe any American who so desires should be allowed to do the same. The Fathers enshrined that right for all of us and anyone who seriously entertains the notion that they didn’t is simply unable (or unwilling) to read and/or understand plain English.

First, a partial quote taken from the email being propagated:

Basically this “little” piece of legislation would make it illegal to own a firearm – any rifle with a clip or ANY pistol unless:

1. It is registered

2. You are fingerprinted

3. You supply a current Driver’s License

4. You supply your Social Security #

5. Each update (change or ownership through private or public sale) must be reported – failure to do so will cause you to automatically lose the right to own a firearm and you may be subject to up to a year in jail.

6. You will submit to a physical & mental evaluation at any time of their choosing

7. The Government would have the right to come and inspect that you are storing your gun safely away from accessibility to children and fine is punishable for up to 5 yrs. in prison.

The first five of these bullet points are not germane to the concern about HR 45 as a piece of pending legislation for the very good reason that we (at least all law-abiding citizens) are already subject to these hateful and unconstitutional requirements, thanks to the Brady bill. Note that I in no sense advocate these stipulations – I merely point out that they are already a matter of settled law and should therefore bear no dispositive influence on the relative merits of the bill in question (HR 45).

Points six and seven are palpably and unpretentiously wrong – a reading of the text of the proposed law does not say what the culprit email claims. To encapsulate, here’s what Snopes.com has to say about both:

“… the bill would not require applicants to “submit to a physical and mental evaluation at any time of their choosing”; applicants would have to authorize the release of any existing mental health records. Also, the right of inspection to ascertain compliance with the law would apply to “any place in which firearms or firearm products are manufactured, stored, or held, for /distribution in commerce/,” not to ordinary households. “

HR 45 is inherently distasteful and wrong-headed enough without resorting to rank fabrication of its provisions; it is, at bottom, an amateurish burnishing of the Brady bill, and was first introduced in 2007 by Chicago’s own Black Panther, Bobby Rush, largely as a political sop (Rush was attempting to capitalize on local public furor over the death of Blair Holt, a junior at Julian High School in Chicago, who was killed on a public bus riding home from school when he used his body to shield a girl who was in the line of fire after a young man boarded the bus and started shooting). His bill was promptly shooed off to committee where it “languished”, as they say. Rush then re-introduced the bill in January of 2009 to capitalize on the perennial liberal spasm of anti-gun sentiment which is as predictable as Nancy Pelosi’s annual tuck. The 2009 version was also hastily relegated to the committee mausoleum, there to molder.

The bill enjoys such surpassing lack of congressional esteem that Lawrence Keane of the NSSF [National Shooting Sports Foundation] was prompted to note, “If this bill passes, Democrats would likely lose (control of) their chamber in upcoming mid-term elections (2010). The leadership in the House knows that.” Keane says some 80 million-plus U.S. citizens own firearms, representing nearly half the households in the nation. He believes that House Democrats will allow the Blair Holt bill to die in subcommittee rather than risk the ire of so many pro-gun voters.

As a pungent if perhaps gratuitous addendum to the substantive objections already described, I cannot resist noting the almost surreal circumstance of a founder of the Black Panthers, who went AWOL while serving his country and who has been convicted on felony weapons charges, having the gall to introduce gun-control legislation, no matter how cynical his motivation. On the plus side of the Bobby ledger, he is the only person to have ever defeated one Barack Obama for public office. Yup, Bobby kicked The One’s butt in the 2000 Democrat primary for Illinois’ 1st District House seat, stating during the campaign, “Barack Obama went to Harvard and became an educated fool.” Gives one pause, eh?

So, c’mon guys … the way is long and tough – let’s traverse it honestly and forthrightly, and leave the low road to those whose case is weak and whose will is flaccid. HR 45 is indeed a travesty, but it will almost certainly expire of its own internal decrepitudes – we don’t have to lie about it.

It is still true – “Truth is the only real liberty”.

Be well.

Polychrome politics …

I got to thinking about rainbows the other day – probably because it had been alternately raining and shining since sun-up – and that led me into a consideration of prisms and wavelengths and such. Pulling down my First Edition, bound with the tanned hide of an 18th century Tory, copy of Newton’s Opticks, I soon found myself immersed in the physics of refraction and diffusion (OK – I made up that part about “First Edition” … and “tanned Tory hide” … in fact, I made it all up … it’s called creative license, Mel). But I did Yahoo (I have renounced and cast off the evils of Google) up a layman’s treatise on the subject, and, thanks to a sometimes worrisome penchant for non-linear thinking, soon found myself speculating (pun intended) on the spectrum of visible light, and how, in terms of the wavelengths of its constitutent colors, it is eerily evocative of the current political spectrum.

Know how? Tellya how …..

Most schoolchildren know (at least most Asian schoolchildren – them danged high-falutin’ non-occidental show-offs still include basic science in their curricula) that if you direct a beam of visible light through a prism it will break up into a series of colors, ranging from bluish to reddish as the wavelength increases from around 380 to 750 nanometers (the approximate wavelength range of visible light). Note that the blue end of the spectrum lies to the left (lower wavelengths), while the red lies to the right. Do you begin to see where I’m going with this?

Let’s get opto-political – here’s a not-very-professionally-done but reasonably accurate graphic of the visible light spectrum:

Most references agree that the wavelength of the “blue” section of the visible light spectrum runs from 450 to 495 nanometers, with the lower wavelengths consigned to “violet” … but here’s where it gets interesting. The “red” range covers a slice from 620 to 750 nm – a range of nearly three times that of the “blue”. Hmmm …. Hang on to that notion – we’ll get back to it.

At this point, allow me a small digression: there are a number of ways to label the pervasive dichotomy of political persuasions in this great republic. Democrat vs republican, blue vs red, progressive vs traditional, liberal vs conservative – pick whichever one blows your skirt up. Personally, I prefer good old Left vs Right; these terms are clear and relatively innocuous, and operate efficiently on a well-understood behavioral continuum, by which I mean only the willfully obtuse will confuse them. Having thus chosen our terms we can now characterize each according to generally accepted conventional criteria. Note that no judgment, pro or con, is made as to the preferability of either position.

Lefties will, on average, be younger, more affluent, more educated in terms of total years of advanced schooling, more ideologically driven (as opposed to issue-driven), and often “cycle” politically, i.e., their political activities are more effusive during election campaigns, then wane markedly. Further, those on the left seem to almost compulsively cluster tightly around certain well-defined “liberal” positions, such as ‘ more government, not less‘, ‘humans are ultimately perfectible through governmental action‘, and ‘wealth re-distribution is a laudable goal‘. In consequence of this ideological compactness, voters on the left have a fungible quality, i.e., unvarying, indistinguishable – essentially interchangeable – and are much less likely to stray significantly from party dogma, or to vote anything but a straight party ballot. These are the electors that gladden the hearts of cigar-chomping apparatchiks in smoke-filled backrooms everywhere.

On the other hand (and isn’t there always an ‘other hand‘?), righties will, again on average, be older, less well off, have fewer years of formal education, be more issue-oriented, and exhibit an almost monotonous stability in the level and tenor of their political exertions. Moreover, unlike their counterparts on the left, they often embrace a veritable panoply of political and social issues, ranging from the marginally dissimilar to the wildly antithetical. These folks are big on things like personal liberty and unfettered independence. To them, the opportunity for self-determination is not just expected, it is sacerdotal – a sacred right. They do not like – in fact, will not abide – being told what or how to think. Remember – these are people who will engage in a fist-fight over whether or not beans can or should be added to chili. They are, then, the bane of political bosses – cranky, unpredictable, ticket-splitting nightmares whose politico-philosophic terrain is significantly more expansive than that of their left-leaning brethren.

OK – I said all that to say this: while rational people can contest (with some justification) the validity of the 1:3 proportion mentioned above, it does seem that there is a clear parallel between the positions and relative degrees of space taken up by the “reds” and the “blues” in both the spectrum of light and that of politics. Who says life doesn’t imitate art (or, in this case, science)?

We could have a bit more fun trying to fit Ralph Nader or Cynthia McKinney into the “green” sections of the scale, or possibly putting Howlin’ Howard Dean down in the “ultraviolet” range … but I confess I am not sure what to do with Bob Barr and Ron Paul … I s’pose they go in the “infrared” zone?

Be Well.

Sarah ‘n’ the Dipity’s

I am of a ripened enough vintage that I still enjoy a good Keystone Kops movie, so imagine my delight at the spectacle afforded this weekend by the political chattering class galumphing about like a clutch of toads in a hailstorm. The source of their manic discomfiture was of course Sarah Palin’s announcement that she was taking a different road – so different that the flock of starlings that passes for the media in this country went absolutely s***-house … as we say out here in Weedsville.

All weekend long (and still this AM) the airwaves fairly crackled with befuddled interrogatories – what was she thinking? What is her “strategy”? What kind of trouble is she in? Is she having another of her daughter’s children? Has Todd been caught hanging out with hairdressers? (And my personal fave – “Is she frightened of Lisa Murkowski?” – to which may I just respond “Bwahahaha”.)

Folks, they just don’t get it; once again, the pseudo-political hoi kaloi have offered incontrovertible evidence (as if any was needed) that they have become so philosophically endogamous as to be the ideological equivalent of an ingrown toenail. One expects them at any time to break into the theme from “Deliverance”. They absolutely cannot (or will not) recognize sincerity, candor, and integrity. Attributes like courage, competence and self-assuredness scare them silly, and Sarah Palin is a refreshing admixture of all of these and more.

It was a scene that could not have been scripted: outdoors, back-dropped by beautiful Lake Whatever, baby son Trig gurgling audibly off-camera, a pair of water-birds cavorting in the brilliant blue of the lake behind her, there was Sarah, gorgeous as always, enchanting listeners with plain, yet pointed words. Flanked by her family and a few friends, she explained quietly and simply what she was going to do and why she was going to do it. I will not synopsize her statement here but just know that it made sense … only those who were taught in their cradle that character assassination is sport would look for underlying motive. Here is a lady who says what she means … and means what she says.

So, for the benefit of all who seek the dastardly back-story (those whom A.J. Leibling delightfully if somewhat deprecatingly referred to as “the less reflective elements of our populace”), let me ease your trubbled minds: there is no grand strategy, no fiendishly clever black-ops, no convoluted Machiavellian plots, no wheels-within-wheels. None a that. Just a bracing whiff of straightforwardness – a freshet of honesty that we have been so long without that many among us have forgotten what it looks and feels like. If nothing else, we should all be thankful for being reminded by Alaska’s outgoing governor that goodness, if it no longer abounds, is at least still in existence.

I have no idea if Sarah is going to run for higher office or anything resembling that. I have said before that I considered her far too bright to do so, and I am (for now) sticking with that opinion. Some wag noted a long time ago that we tend to get the kind of government we deserve; if that is true, and I believe it is, then we won’t see Sarah Palin in Washington. We don’t merit her kind of character and competence, and she certainly deserves better than us.

Be well.

The Return of the Rabbit …

I have (and I don’t know why this surprises me) run headlong into a major snag in my book project. Much of the needed source material for said project is housed at the Nebraska Historical Society which is, for better or worse, currently undergoing a mega-renovation, the scale of which has rendered the Society’s archives essentially inaccessible to spavined old rabbits and other seekers of antediluvian midlands lore. I have done about as much as I can do at this early stage relative to non-research activities, and the NHS tells me that on-site research access will not resume until early 2010 – so I find myself at a bit of a loose end. Ergo, and in concert with the “Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly” philosophy first articulated back in 1927 by Oscar Hammerstein, seems like “bunnies gotta blog” …. So here I am back again, at least for an interregnum of unpredictable duration; my intention is to irregularly (read “When I’m bored out of my gourd“) sprinkle a little Wiggily wisdom and witticism upon the impenitent breast of the blogosphere … because … you know … I have no life.

Where to begin … or should that be “resume”? While I haven’t been blogging for the past few months I have been reading a few select blogs, which, in my opinion, constitute some of the more rational opiners on matters of heartland socio-politico-cultural consequence, as well as the occasional just plain bizarre. Leavenworth Street continues to carry the banner for those who are primarily Omaha-oriented (but, admittedly, Sweeper surprises with an occasional helping of out-state goings-on). The Old Feeder has happily been resurrected over at the Plains Feeder (though he is currently mysteriously AWOL). Harby, the infamously eclectic, not to say reactionary, academic, still glows brightly through the ordurous liberal alluvium that is the University of Nebraska, at his Right Wing Professor node on the ‘Net. Even Kyle, whose Neener-Neener Network site continues to set the standard for kludgy illegibility and long-winded clutter, has apparently survived an emotionally draining existential crisis a few weeks ago and has come slithering back from the left in diligent pursuit of irrelevance (thanx, WFB). I also irregularly skim by Laura Ebke’s RedState digs, but the redolence of Ron Paul continues to permeate that otherwise entirely acceptable and cerebral blog, so I, still unable to believe in leprechauns, usually do not tarry long.

Glad you’re all here … it’s good to be among you. I share core principles with some of you, with others of you notsomuch, but you have all (along with many others) proven to be serious, articulate and durable observers of the human condition at the outset of the new millenium and we’re all better off for your presence.

More anon. Be well.