Some 35 years ago, the Ol' Bloviator published a book called "The Selling of the South," which chronicled the efforts of southern political and economic leaders to attract new industrial plants, employing a variety of subsidies, tax exemptions and other gimmicks, but focusing in by far the greatest part on the promise of cheap, nonunion labor. As the following piece, which appeared a while back at zocalopublicsquare.org, shows all too well, this practice has changed but little.


 

The recent crushing rejection of a United Auto Workers bid to organize a 6,500-worker Nissan assembly plant near Canton, Mississippi seemed to present the proverbial déjà vu all over again for organized labor's ancient and oft-thwarted crusade to gain a serious foothold among Southern workers.

This time, however, we are not talking about textile and apparel plants in the 1920s or '30s, but about a thoroughly globalized Japanese auto manufacturer, led until a few months ago by a French-educated, Brazilian-born CEO. What might seem to be no more than a classically Southern triumph of continuity over change is better understood as an example of continuity within change--one with implications ranging well beyond regional boundaries.

Cheap labor has been the mainstay of efforts to lure industrial employers into the South since the 1880s. By the 1920s, union agents venturing into the region could expect withering inhospitality, not excluding brutal beatings by local sheriffs or company thugs. With these shows of physical force came a powerful and cohesive propaganda barrage, courtesy of racist and sectionalist politicians who linked labor unions to the abolitionists of the 1850s and the "race mixing" NAACP of the 1950s.

According to one study of Southern industrial development, it was common practice to remind workers that unions were ruled by "potbellied Yankees with big cigars in their mouths" sporting names "even a high school teacher couldn't pronounce." From the pulpits came warnings that "CIO means Christ is Out," with editors and Chamber of Commerce types chiming in to make a vote to unionize tantamount to "endorsing the closing of a factory."

Between 1944 and 1954, all of the old Confederate states strengthened their anti-union arsenals with right-to-work statutes outlawing the practice of requiring all employees of union-represented plants to belong to the union or pay dues. The union membership rate in the South was 50 percent of the national average in 1939, and as of 2016, the Southern average had slipped to 43 percent of the national mean--particularly telling given that the national figure is now only 10.7 percent.

Since the 1930s, a steady proliferation of industrial enticements and subsidies, including free land, tax-exemptions, and low-interest bond financing offered by state and local governments has effectively made anti-unionism the sine qua non of Southern regional development strategy. Protecting these investments of public revenue and resources in private firms made it even more vital to keep the subsidized company union-free.

As the cost of these concessions soared, the South became something akin to a lavishly appointed gated community for industrialists, maintained primarily at the expense of their own workers. Not only were union recruiters sent packing, but even potentially high-wage employers like United Airlines. In 1991, the airline met with vociferous opposition from the Greensboro, North Carolina business community when it revealed plans for a maintenance facility that would bring 6,000 well-paid unionized workers to a well-known haven for non-union industries.

With Rust Belt employers already opting for the balmier business climate of the "Sun Belt," foreign industrial investment in the South got a huge boost in 1971, when the Nixon administration moved to boost exports by devaluing the dollar while simultaneously imposing a 10 percent surcharge on imported manufactures. At that point, exulted a British banker, industrial investments in the United States were "like getting Harrods at half price."

Excited liberals presumed initially that these foreign companies, coming from environments where labor enjoyed greater bargaining rights and prerogatives, would not insist on union-free work forces. Yet, many of them were drawn to the South precisely because it had neither the labor issues nor the leftist political pressures that they felt at home. Although they consistently offered wages higher than the local average, none of the South's new foreign employers like Nissan or BMW showed much inclination to lug along the high wages and extensive benefits that one German executive called "the social baggage we have back home."

This much became apparent in 1977 when the French tire maker Michelin, which had recently opened a plant near Greenville, South Carolina, joined forces with local development leaders to keep a large, relatively high-wage, but likely-to-be-unionized Phillip Morris plant out of the area. Thirty years later, developers were still reminding Japanese industrialists that because South Carolina's unionization rate was "one of the lowest in the nation" its manufacturing wage was also "among the lowest in the country." In the long run, emerging global competition for new plants made it all the more imperative for the region to hold down labor costs by continuing to resist the incursions of organized labor.

Nissan became the South's first major international auto manufacturer in 1980, when it agreed to open a truck plant near Smyrna, Tennessee. Toyota would follow four years later with a facility near Georgetown, Kentucky, and over the next 20 years an invading horde of foreign automakers including Mercedes, BMW, Honda, Kia, Hyundai, and Volkswagen would stake their claims in the American South. As the list of firms grew, so did the size of the subsidies offered. With the bidding for new foreign car plants in full runaway mode, Tennessee's initial $33 million payoff to Nissan seemed like pocket change compared to the $295 million show of affection that sealed its original agreement in 2000 to come to Madison County, Mississippi. Mississippi's subsidy guarantees to Nissan now exceed $1.2 billion, with the total for all foreign automakers with plants in the South topping $4.2 billion.

To this day, not a single production workforce at any of these heavily subsidized foreign auto plants has opted to join the United Auto Workers. Nissan's non-union Tennessee and Mississippi operations are the only such plants among its 45 production facilities world-wide. Like its international peers as well as the great majority of the domestic manufacturers preceding it to the South, the company has frequently reminded workers, state officials, and leaders of the affected communities of their stake in keeping it that way. In the struggle in Canton alone, Nissan has racked up eight NLRB charges of unfair labor practices in the last 36 months.

The anti-union onslaught in Canton over the protracted build-up to this month's vote had a ferocity reminiscent of many such campaigns in years past. This time, however, the stakes were much higher, not simply in terms of money and jobs locally, but in the future of what has long been Mississippi and the South's foundational development strategy of bringing jobs in by keeping unions out. Though the terminology and technology employed by both camps were different than they would have been 75 years ago, elements of race, religion, regional bias, and, of course, fear, were still part of the story this time around.

With blacks accounting for a large majority of plant employees, race came into play more subtly this time, as anti-UAW spokesmen pointed to the union's donations and close ties with certain black churches and civil rights advocates, while union supporters cited preferential treatment for white plant employees. There was ministerial involvement on both sides, with pro-union clergy concentrating on linking workers' rights to civil rights and pointing to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s advocacy of both. Meanwhile, instead of Satanizing the UAW, opposing clerics came closer to deifying Nissan for, as one put it, making "such a change in the life of the people ... The lights are on, the water is running ... Everything is fine. It is just superb."

Ironically, representatives of Yokohama-based Nissan cast the UAW as an "outsider" trying to disrupt the plant "family." Although the old-fashioned appeals to sectional bias were not apparent in official company statements, they lurked just below the surface among rank-and-file union opponents, such as the one who took to an anti-union Facebook page to condemn organizers as "21st-century carpetbaggers" and urge workers to "help these Yankee aholes pack ... and tell [them] to get back to Michigan and stay there."

Meanwhile, anti-union politicians were hardly less given to fear-mongering than they had been several generations earlier. Mississippi Gov. Phil Bryant warned, "If you want to take away your job, if you want to end manufacturing as we now know it in Mississippi, just start expanding unions." Bryant's message echoed one in a video shown to workers from Steve Marsh, the plant's top executive, who pointed out that UAW workers at Ford and GM had "experienced significant instability in recent years," including, "many layoffs and plant closings." A representative of Kelly Services, which recruits temporary workers for Nissan, had warned more explicitly on Facebook that the Canton plant might close if the union came in.

In the end, Nissan's not-so-veiled threats of lost jobs were almost certainly critical to the roughly two-thirds vote against the UAW. An estimated 40 percent of the workforce are temporaries, who are hired at much lower starting wages, currently advertised by Kelly Services at $13.46 per hour. If they eventually join the regular workforce, these former temps come in at their current pay under a two-tier wage-benefit scale that caps their hourly wage at $24, roughly $2 per hour less than the average for a worker hired earlier on regular terms. Even so, a Nissan employee making $24 per hour would still be making as much as $385 more each week than the average for workers surrounding counties, including Hinds, which is home to the state capital.

With temporary workers ineligible to vote, the second-tier status of some 1,500 former temporary workers seemed more likely to support the union than their senior-coworkers, and a reasonably unified pro-UAW stance on their part might have swung things the other way. When it came time to vote, though, in a state that is down more than 30,000 manufacturing jobs over the last decade, even an inequitable work situation was clearly preferable to flipping burgers or cleaning motel rooms. One former temp reasoned that even her second-tier paycheck meant that she could finally, "put food on my table without worrying about having to pay my light bill." 

The key to this and countless other union defeats in the South and elsewhere, is not the ignorance of those who vote "No," or their blindness to the potential benefits of union representation. Rather, it is the sobering, self-preservational realism of workers steeped in generations of unrelenting, sometimes unthinkable poverty. Although making some headway at long last, in an age of almost instantaneous industrial mobility they remain acutely sensitive to the ephemerality of even the incremental gains they are finally enjoying as individuals. It should not surprise us that they are given to far greater skepticism of the more expansive vision of progress they are asked to accept on faith by others whose lived experiences often differ dramatically from their own.

N.B.

Still juiced on the classic liberal notion that worker solidarity trumps all, a certain commenter on the OB's humble offering seems oblivious to radical changes in historical and economic context since the 1950s. As it so often does, this particular blind spot breeds impatience rather than empathy:

 This very interesting and historically enlightening article is seriously flawed by the last paragraph which is absolute nonsense. It is not "self-preservational realism" or any other kind of rational thinking that caused the Nissan workers to vote against their own self-interest. I don't know why they voted against themselves but i suspect that it is about intellectually unsophisticated workers succumbing to intimidation. I grew up in Detroit where first generation immigrant factory workers with little education like both of my grandfathers had the courage and insight to fight to unionize the auto industry.

While the O.B. readily doffs his beanie to this gent's resolute and courageous grandpas, he begs to point out that mid-20th century Detroit autoworkers had little reason to think that the factory doors were going to be slammed in their faces when Americans were standing in line to get them one of those Buicks with the new dynaflow transmissions.  Nor were the factories themselves going to be relocated at any great distance from the vital steel and rubber suppliers concentrated in the Industrial Midwest.

Suffice it to say, the world looks quite different today, not simply for workers in Mississippi but those in many of the former strongholds of organized labor throughout the old Manufacturing Belt. At 8.1 percent, Alabama has the highest unionization rate among the 11 states of the old Confederacy, while the rate in 7 of those states is under 5 percent. Meanwhile, across the entire country, the share of workers belonging to unions has fallen from 20.1 percent in 1983 to 10.7 percent in 2016, reflecting a loss of 3 million members over that span.   Industrial outmigration, complaints about excessive wage and benefits demands, and a general anti-labor political backlash have factored heavily in this decline, which has produced serious political consequences, particularly for the Democrats, for whom "labor" has long simply meant "organized labor." It is one thing to say that reversing the longstanding overall decline in union membership would help to restore a much-needed balance and tangibility to American politics. It is quite another to draw on a sorely outmoded perception of the current realities of labor-management positioning to summarily declare that any worker in any setting who opts out of union representation is incapable of defining or assessing his/her "own self-interest."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ol' Bloviator has felt much like a meteorologist in hurricane season ever since last month's horror in Charlottesville, and is still suffering the aftereffects of what he can only describe as "Sudden Onset Relevance Syndrome," triggered by an unaccustomed spike in interest in his opinion among members of the Fourth Estate. Bombarded with requests for interviews and commentary on this monument mess, he has been pushed to the brink of exhaustion by a steady procession of demands requiring his mouth or keyboard to operate in sync with the erratic discharges of his alcohol-ravaged synapses. The O.B. has been talking to reporters on a fairly regular basis over the last 30 years or so, but the last few weeks have truly challenged his capacity for saying the same thing again and again while trying to make it sound original each time.  He will say, however, that his most recent journalistic encounters have in the main been both rewarding and stimulating. A case in point is this interview with the folks from the weekend version of NPR's "All Things Considered," where both his interrogator and the producer were kind enough to give him enough time to connect a few of his thoughts into a commentary that a generous sort might even deem semi-coherent. It was a bit of a different story in that respect with the folks over in London at the Financial Times, (Warning: Likely Pay-walled.) but if some 150 of the precious words out of the submitted piece that follows wound up on the proverbial cutting room floor, it must at least be said that they were excised as smartly and skillfully as any of the O.B.'s many bon mots that have met with the same fate. (The caption, on the other hand, reinforces the O.B.'s longstanding perception that the task of writing these is invariably assigned to the biggest dimwit on staff.)

 "Although the implications of the recent tragedy in Charlottesville Virginia are clearly national in scope, it played out on a stage set by the historic insistence of generations of white Southerners on defining themselves by a defeat visited on their ancestors more than 150 years ago. Historian Carlton J. H. Hayes could have cited the example of the American South as those of Spain and Serbia when he observed that "a people may be more united and nationalistic through grief over defeat than through celebration of triumph."

 Even before 1860s drew to a close, former Confederate president Jefferson Davis and other high-ranking military leaders began to assemble an arsenal of historical documents "from which the defenders of our cause may draw any desired weapon." The carefully cultivated reverence for the valorous defenders of the South's" Lost Cause" ultimately made its biggest impact not in writing but the tidal wave of physical representations of Confederate heroes which swept across the South between roughly 1890 and 1910. Inscriptions on these monuments lauded the brave guardians of "Anglo-Saxon," (i.e., "white') civilization in a period  marked as well  by the rise of legally mandated racial segregation and the political disenfranchisement of  all but a tiny fraction of the southern black population. Not coincidentally, these years also witnessed the lynchings of approximately 2,000 black people, for the campaigns to strip away the civil rights of black southerners were fueled by highly incendiary racial scapegoating, some of it by staunch advocates of  plastering the landscape with Confederate memorials

. Meanwhile, measures like poll taxes or a literacy requirements for voting were critical not only in  restoring white supremacy but in determining which whites would be supreme because these suffrage restrictions sharply curtailed political participation by both poor whites as well as blacks, the two groups most likely to vote against the conservative Democratic establishment.  In the wake of disfranchisement, Republican turnout in South Carolina fell from 28% in 1880 to just 3% in 1896. Similar figures from other states suggest that the so-called solidly Democratic, white supremacist South was not born but made, and, if so, Lost Cause monuments and mythology were among the critical construction materials.  They are rightly condemned for their connection to slavery, which, Confederate vice-president Alexander Stephens called the veritable "cornerstone" of the new nation, but such a narrow focus does not do full justice to their pernicious importance to efforts to re-subjugate black Southerners as comprehensively as the rest of the nation would allow.

 Sadly, that turned out to be quite a lot, as northern politicians quickly lost their stomach for efforts to aid and protect the former slaves in the face of surging interest in exploiting the investment potential of a rebuilding region now intent on rapid economic modernization. The northern push for "reconciliation" entailed not only foreswearing further interference in southern racial affairs, but swallowing the Lost Cause propaganda package at a single gulp. Both requirements registered as faits accompli in an 1890 New York Times report on the unveiling of a statue of Robert E. Lee in Richmond, which declared that just as Lee's memory truly belonged to "the American people," the monument was "itself a national possession."  Noting a profusion of Confederate battle flags at the ceremonies an elderly black man seized on the true meaning of the occasion for him when he exclaimed "The Southern white folks is on top!"

 Surprisingly, the flag's widespread association with avowedly white supremacist organizations emerged only in the mid-1940s when rising trepidation that the destabilizing forces unloosed by World War II might undermine the entire Jim Crow system. The Confederate banner was both more emotive and much easier to hoist at a cross-burning than a bust of Stonewall Jackson, and it quickly became a fixture at rallies and marches, not only of the Ku Klux Klan, but a variety of postwar neo-Nazi hate groups, not mention a succession of fire-breathing segregationist politicians.

Despite the Confederate flag's highly visible presence at the most appalling scenes of violence and bigotry that erupted in the 1960s and not infrequently thereafter, many white Southerners clung desperately to the idea that it actually symbolized "heritage not hate." Ultimately, it would take the 2015 slaying of nine black churchgoers in Charleston, South Carolina by a young, Confederate flag-obsessed white man to shatter this long-implausible argument. The various furlings of the Rebel banner in the immediate aftermath of this atrocity augured a similar fate for their bronze and concrete counterparts, at least ten of which have been stripped of their prominent perches in the southern and border-South states in 2017 alone.

If there is anything affirmative to be salvaged from the wreckage of Charlottesville, it is that in descending on the city from all over the country and moving on to such far-flung locales as Boston and Berkeley, the rampaging alt-Right hordes may have finally vanquished the wishful notion that racial hostility in America bears the the imprimatur of a single region. At this juncture, certainly, the incalculable harm done by white Southerners and who persisted in trying to separate "heritage" from "hate," leaves us only to tremble at the prospect of four years under a President who seldom bothers even to make the attempt."

Despite all the vitriol elicited by conflicts over these monuments, the O.B. has had but little flung at him-- on this side of the pond, at least. On the other hand, the more than 200 comments affixed to the foregoing piece online, indicate that he has thrown a good number of the devoted readers of the FT into a state of high dudgeon. The trio that follow represent some of the O.B's favorites among many excellent examples of the fine art of disparagement. If there is any solace to be taken from such a mass of opinions masquerading as fact, it could be that, as a group, the Brits are almost as ignorant of American history as Americans are.

"The best comments I have seen, and there have been many good ones, are those that address surprise that the FT would publish an article like this, not only incendiary but ignorant of the American south even at a basic level."

"Don't know if the author ever lived in the American south but I expect not."

[And the O.B.'s personal favorite:]

"Apparently this guy actually wrote a book about the South. Imagine the poor sods who end up reading it."

Confederates in Concrete Are On The Move

 

 


forrest zocalo.jpg

(Coutesy Brent Moore/Flickr.)

The Ol' Bloviator has delivered so many truly mind-numbing disquisitions on controversies over Confederate iconography that something akin to this downright demonic representation of Confederate Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest has begun to haunt his dreams.(Not for nothing was this ugly-assed sucker selected as one of the world's ten most terrifying statues.)  True to his nature and calling however, the O.B. refuses to let the fact that he doesn't have much to add on a particular topic prevent him from cutting loose on it yet again, particularly when he is asked to do so, as he was a few weeks ago by the folks at Zocalo Public Square. What follows is a dramatically revised and expanded version of that piece. 

 

The recent uproar in New Orleans over de-Confederatizing southern public spaces succeeded once again in bringing out the worst in those who are emotionally overinvested in concrete representations of the leaders and key figures who stood on the wrong side of history more than 150 years ago. Unlikely as it seems, the search for a useful parallel for understanding the historical and contemporary context of  events in New Orleans may take us from the banks of the Mississippi to the banks of the Tigris. (The O.B. knows he is asking his gentle readers to make a bit of a stretch here, but he makes that request out of sheer desperation to appear to be saying something new about this time- and tongue-worn issue, so cut him a little slack, will ya?)  When Saddam Hussein's Baathist Party came to power in Iraq in 1968, he undertook straight away to instill a sense of national pride and identity in his subjects by deliberately glorifying (and grossly embellishing) his own regime's accomplishments while linking them to the supposed glories of ancestral antiquity. Pursuant to this end, he demanded that writers and visual artists present positive and compelling representations of Iraq's past and present, stretching back all the way to ancient Mesopotamia and classical Islam, to be supplemented later by a variety of overpowering monuments such as the Arc of Triumph, formed by gigantic hands holding swords and designed to pay tribute to a claimed victory in the Iran-Iraq War. All of this was meant to instill nationalistic fervor as a means of securing support or at least tolerance of Saddam's tyrannical and reckless leadership.

Despite the differences in time and distance, there is a certain similarity between Saddam's tactics and those of postbellum southern leaders, who sought to instill a sense of quasi-nationalistic pride and purpose among white southerners by rallying them around a glorious if illusory past, embodied in the Lost Cause and its valorous defense of the genteel and aristocratic Old South. Tirelessly invoking this seductive imagery, politicians drew on it to rally whites behind their efforts to strip blacks of their political, legal and civil rights. The move to monumentalize the Lost Cause often went hand-in-hand with campaigns for segregation and disfranchisement that, replete with incendiary rhetoric, more than once fueled outbreaks of mass violence against blacks. An ex-Confederate and former North Carolina congressman Alfred Moore Waddell, worked tirelessly to secure monuments to the state's "fallen sons," while warning that the only real means of preserving their heroic legacy was denying black men the vote by any means necessary even if "we have to choke the Cape Fear [River] with carcasses."  These chilling words foretold Waddell's role as the  principal instigator of  the infamous Wilmington, N.C., riot of 1898, which left at least two dozen blacks dead.

 Likewise, guardians of a Jim Crow system that prevailed well past the middle of the twentieth century played on Lost Cause loyalties in making the defense of this sinister arrangement the litmus test of loyalty to "our forefathers" and to "the southern way of life," suggesting just how deeply the institutions of white supremacy had been embedded in the notion of a distinct southern white identity over the stretch of several generations. When the Civil Rights era finally toppled the formal barriers to racial equality, it was not surprising that white southerners who could not accept the finality of this result and fought to reverse the irreversible continued to cloak themselves in the Confederate flag and other trappings of the Lost Cause. Yet, even among the majority of white southerners who made their peace with Jim Crow's demise, there was a reluctance to go full cold turkey on their allegiances to the Lost Cause ethos, lest they surrender all that remained of what defined their cultural identity.

It took way too long, of course, but their insistence that continued affinity for Confederate symbols could be grounded in "heritage" rather than "hate" finally became blatantly untenable. Rebel flags and Confederate monuments had dominated the grounds of courthouses where such mockeries of justice such as the 1955 trial of the murderers of Emmett Till and the 1964 trial of the slayers of four civil rights workers in Philadelphia, Mississippi played out. In the aftermath of the grisly slaughter of nine black parishioners occurred in Charleston, South Carolina, it became inescapably clear that Lost Cause iconography and paraphernalia had been a central thread in a lengthy but tightly interwoven tapestry of racial oppression and injustice. The Charleston massacre forced many white Southerners at long last to weigh the abstractness of heritage against the concreteness of hate, leaving them little choice but  to withdraw, however grudgingly at first, from the active defense of Confederate symbols, largely leaving the field to an outnumbered, under-resourced minority for whom white supremacy was all that was left of their identity to defend.

Perhaps that is why, for all the death threats and precautionary measures that marked recent events in New Orleans, the proceedings gave off more than a whiff of fait accompli. It was particularly noteworthy that while the removal of the first three monuments was accomplished in the dead of night, the fourth and most significant extraction, that of none other than the iconic Robert Edward Lee, came in broad daylight and on a pre-announced schedule.  Make no mistake about it, this was no mere takedown of a another memorial to a Confederate general but rather a benchmark event, in that it was a high-profile removal from a high-profile location of a monument to the highest-profile Confederate of them all.

Lee's posthumous anointment as the symbolic embodiment of the Lost Cause was but a prelude to his acceptance into the national pantheon as well. As white America in general rushed to embrace the romantic vision of southern gallantry and devotion, Lee's star shone ever brighter in the national firmament as well, commanding the admiration of several U.S. presidents, including both Roosevelts and Dwight D. Eisenhower, who hung Lee's portrait in the Oval Office, and praised him for being "noble as a leader and as a man and unsullied as I read the pages of our history." Even as Eisenhower rendered this high compliment, however, "the pages of our history" were being re-written. Lee's aura of nobility and strength had insulated him from his undeniable role as leader of the fighting forces of a nation whose self-described "cornerstone" was slavery, but with historians and those who took them seriously finally ready to confront the reality that the Civil War was fought over the institution of human bondage, his pristine personal aura no longer loomed large enough to obscure his connections to a monstrous human evil. His name began to disappear from public schools, parks, and thoroughfares some twenty years ago, but monuments bearing his likeness have been slower to give way, as if he represented the final sacrosanct pillar supporting the crumbling infrastructure of Lost Cause mythology.

Though it drew more attention, the removal of Lee's statue in New Orleans actually conveyed less of a sense of finality than the decision to do the same in Charlottesville, Virginia, scarcely 100 miles south of his birthplace, where torch-bearing opponents of the move gathered recently to hear white nationalist Richard Spencer, sparking a candlelight counter protest in which a "Black Lives Matter" banner was laid at the statue's base. Legal action has guaranteed that the statue will stay put for six months, but if the ultimate failure of such efforts in New Orleans is any guide, General Lee and his storied mount, Traveler, will soon be on the move in Charlottesville as well.

Beyond these moves to evict Lee's likenesses, there are other reasons to suspect that, at long last, the days of Confederate monuments occupying well-known public spaces might be numbered. Since the Charleston massacre two years ago, at least sixty other Confederate symbols have reportedly been removed from such spaces. Confederate Memorial Day is no longer observed as such in Georgia, and the holiday is under fire in Arkansas and other states as well. There will be rear-guard counteroffensives, to be sure, as attention-seeking legislators seek to reinstitute Confederate holidays or impose legal restrictions on the removal of Confederate monuments, but the broad sense that symbolic tributes to the Confederacy will soon be much less central to southern representative culture is hard to shake.

If reaching this point in what has been a protracted and often agonizing process  has triggered a certain splintering of southern white identity then it is a small price to pay, compared to the benefits of forging a more just and inclusive society. Such a society had of course been the aim of those who succeeded in overthrowing Saddam in Iraq, and they quickly launched a radical and sweeping effort to de-Baathify the country by purging the government and its bureaucracy of former party members and erasing the cultural and architectural remnants of  the historical memory that Saddam had constructed in the interest of fostering national unity and pride. This zealous campaign soon raised concerns, however, including the specter of an unraveling social fabric across a population already marked by significant and contentious ethnic and religious divisions. The situation only grew worse when de-Baathification seemed set the stage for wanton looting and depredation of some of Iraq's most precious antiquities, some of it driven by a variety of lingering sectarian animosities. Iraqi art expert Nada Shabout conceded that "Some of the [Baathist] monuments were in bad taste and were ugly, and I would not be heartbroken if they were brought down. But... they were nevertheless part of the history of the country... So do we throw away the baby with the bath water?"

While the immediate consequences of de-Confederatizing southern public spaces are unlikely to prove even remotely as severe in this country, events in Iraq represent yet another addition to a list of particulars stretching back many centuries of the complexities and frequently unintended consequences of attempting to erase disturbing reminders of an imperfect past.

Monuments to the defenders of slavery are nothing if not disturbing, all the more so because they were also the instruments of the people who brought us the watered down version of slavery that was Jim Crow. Yet, in this respect while, like Saddam's memorials, they may no longer be acceptable as public historical symbols, they nonetheless retain a distinct and indelible value as historical artifacts. Placed in museums or other suitable venues where they can be appropriately contextualized, they might succeed in persuading whites that they don't belong on public property while persuading blacks that they should not be destroyed.

The spirit of an ambitious campaign by historic preservationists at the Atlanta History Center and elsewhere to properly contextualize Confederate monuments is embodied in a tablet affixed last October to the base of a Confederate monument on the campus at Ole Miss. While respectful of the idea of honoring "the sacrifice of local Confederate soldiers," the tablet also cautions that such monuments "were often used to promote an ideology known as the 'the Lost Cause,' which claimed that the Confederacy had been established to defend states' rights and that slavery was not the principal cause of the Civil War." In addition to a reminder that the Confederacy's defeat "meant freedom for millions of people," the plaque also notes this particular monument's divisive legacy as "a rallying point for opponents of integration" on the evening of the deadly riot that marked James Meredith's arrival on campus in September, 1962.

Here, in and between the lines on this tablet, lies a truly compelling argument for preserving and fully articulating the origins and implications of these notorious pieces of concrete. Modest as it might seem, this effort might be a step toward the day when white and black Southerners not only find a way to share their common but traditionally conflict-ridden past, but to make it the foundation of a new and profoundly more representative regional identity. If this should indeed come to pass, the Lost Cause will have given way to one infinitely more inclusive and inspiring.

 

 

 

A Pirate Looks at 140

Yes I am a pirate, two hundred years too late
The cannons don't thunder, there's nothing to plunder
I'm an over-forty victim of fate
Arriving too late, arriving too late

(Jimmy Buffett, " A Pirate Looks at 40")

            The Ol' Bloviator was getting along toward forty himself when he first heard Jimmy Buffet's wistful reflection on a raucously misspent youth that had dragged on far too long and washed him up on the front stoop of middle age with a résumé decidedly short on profound achievements. It's hardly surprising that "A Pirate Looks at Forty" resonated with the O.B. when he was looking ahead to the fateful Four-Oh, but it has stuck with him even as the birthday ante rose to Five-Oh, Six-Oh, and now, alas, the fateful Seven-Oh. Though the O.B. can't exactly claim to have sustained his own piratehood over the last three decades, he does like to think that he at least continued to be, a la Mr. Buffet once more, one of "the people our parents warned us about." Like everybody else who has made it thus far, the O.B. acknowledges the irony of his long-ago angst about turning forty in light of his current fantasies of being forty, fifty, or even sixty again.

            The accretion of benchmark birthdays takes on added heft when it finally brings us to the point where we decide that it is time to put aside the labors that have kept the family fed and clothed and largely (often too largely) defined the meanings of our lives over more decades than truly seems possible. Though the O.B. is still in the adjustment phase, he can report that he has reached the stage of retirement where he doesn't get paid, but the part where he no longer works as hard as he did when he was still seems a faint and distant prospect.

            For many people who have managed to surrender gainful employment without having to subsist on day-old bread and SPAM casseroles, the sharpest pang attendant to their change in circumstances is the sense of free-falling into irrelevance. Since one's relevance is always determined by others, and an ever-changing population of them at that, it is a status whose maintenance is likely to demand an increasingly whorish dedication as time passes. Still, accepting the reality of being yesterday's news professionally is for most of us the extremely rough equivalent of a dog passing a peach pit, the difference being that once that agony is past, Fido need not concern himself with the intimidating question of how he is to make the remainder of his life meaningful. In his case, being a constant source of unconditional love and an occasional fall guy for somebody else's flatulence gets it done nicely. For us septuagenarians, however, it's not quite so simple.

            The O.B. has tried to read dozens of advice columns on how to find happiness and satisfaction in retirement only to feel gravity working on his eyelids in a matter of a few paragraphs. Here awhile back though, he ran into one he could not only finish but do so with profit. The gist of the writer's advice was that rather than contenting ourselves with familiar, long-mastered activities and pursuits, we should defy our old-goathood by taking up something new and edgy, not with the idea of becoming the best there is at it, but with the goal of registering progressive improvement, not necessarily competing with others, but definitely with ourselves. Like much of the advice we cherish, this was particularly welcome for the O.B. because he realized first that he was already following it and second ,that he realized why what he was doing was so satisfying.

            As a wide-eyed college freshman, the O.B. had been instructed in physical education by a guy whose uber-coolness was further embellished by his ride, a classic Porsche 356.

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In what was truly a ridiculous fantasy for a kid surviving on a numbingly steady diet of beanie weenies and peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches, the O.B., right then and there, vowed and declared that one day he would own one of them sweet-lookin', even sweeter soundin' Porsche automobiles. That dream spent some forty years on hold, yet as the years pile up, there comes a point when "You ain't getting' any younger" simply cannot be taken as an admonition that if you actually aspire to amount to anything you'd best be getting to it and can only be interpreted as not simply a suggestion but an absolute mandate to do something unprecedentedly irresponsible and self-indulgent. The O.B. reached that point a little over a decade ago when he was still pondering the implication of his impending sixtieth when he spied a newspaper classified offering a mint-condition, low-mileage 1986 Porsche Carrera at, by Porsche standards, a responsible price, and as quick as that, he made good on his ancient vow. 

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Porsche 911s of that vintage embody the iconic look and design that generations of car enthusiasts have associated with the brand. Boasting the indestructible air-cooled, 200 or so hp. rear-mounted engine, amazing low-end torque, and classic Porsche indifference to niceties like air conditioning and power steering, it was, in short, a pure delight to drive, so much so that the O.B. eventually felt an irresistible urge to take it to the track at least once to see what it could do.

 It could do quite a bit, as it turned out, though it was clearly no match for the newer, better-handling, higher-powered, more expertly engineered (for both performance and safety) upstarts of more recent vintage Though he did so with much the same feelings that come with putting down a beloved old pooch, the O.B. moved on from his precious, hard-realized vehicular dream to a newer P-car of a different design, in that unlike the 911, its engine was in front of the axle.first GTS shotcompresize.jpg

 Therefore, the Porsche Cayman was less likely than its venerable predecessor to emerge from a tight corner with its rear wheels where its front wheels were supposed to be. Fearful of diminishing the attractiveness of its bread-and-butter vehicle, the 911, the brainstrust in Stuttgart deliberately held back on the Cayman's horsepower. Yet, although the number of ponies propelling the Cayman crept up only grudgingly, the superiority of its handling soon cut into its big brother's advantage on any sublimely curvy track like Road Atlanta, where speed and balance through the crookeds can cancel out a lot of horsepower advantage on the straights.

            Thus, it was that having become a track rat of the first order, in the most protracted and non-linear process imaginable, the O.B. managed in the teensiest of many, many steps to get a little better each time out. There is a reason after all why the old adage about the difficulties of teaching an old dog new tricks has been around so long. By the same token, though, there is a difference between difficult and impossible, and it was in precisely that zone where it's all about concentration and self-discipline that the O.B. found his special personal groove. Even at moderate speed, keeping a vehicle on the asphalt at tracks like Road Atlanta demands close attention, and as the mph climbs ( to say nothing of the "pucker" factor) nothing less than total mental and sensory commitment is required to send you home with your paint job undisturbed and all your wheels attached. Even a fleeting thought about how good a cool one will taste when the day's driving is done, raises the prospect of a happy hour spoiled by the sight of your precious toy strapped in contorted agony to a flatbed truck.

There are places approaching every corner where appropriate braking must begin and an equally critical spot, which always comes later than you think, where the turn-in must be executed lest you run out of track before achieving the necessary turning radius. The eager beaver first-timer might well see taking his car to the track as nothing more than a chance to show off how fast it is on the straightaways, but if he arrives with that attitude, a wizened old Gearhead is certain to tell him that most any fool can stomp the pedal to the floor while moving in a straight line. It's what you can do when the line ain't straight that really counts.

            The O.B. has been reminded of this when he checks out his futuristic whizomatic lap recorder and sees his fastest times on laps where his average speed is the same as a slower lap, but he has minimized the distance he traveled by hitting the corners just about right. It is precisely this demand for precision and focus that pushes literally everything else out of his head that has the O.B. so addicted to the track experience. Of course, he'd be fibbin' just a bit to tell you that he doesn't find just a tad of satisfaction in pushing his car to ever greater velocities as he did on this most recent track visit when he saw the needle actually tickle 140 mph for the first time. This figure, you might note, precisely doubles the O.B.'s official coming of old age. Coincidence? The O.B. thinks not, although he hastens to add that compared to his seasoned fellow drivers, he is still the equivalent of an old duffer in a '53 Plymouth, puttering along in the left lane with his blinkers on all the time. This would come as no surprise whatsoever to the decidedly downbeat Psalmist who reminded us that:

            The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. (Psalm 90:10)

 We might be inclined to hope that the writer went a little overboard in reminding us to make the most of our precious time on the mortal coil when he not only set our checkout date at 70, but made it seem that trying to hang around any longer simply wasn't worth the effort.  Yet for all the rah-rah, effluence about 70 being the new 50, the current life expectancy figures for males of 76.3 show the old boy's actuarials were not too shabby, particularly for a goatherd.

The O.B. would have no kick coming if, in the next few days, "buon compleanno" gave way to "riposare in pace" His three-score-and-ten have been filled with the constant and boundless love afforded him by his precious family, and the deep and abiding loyalty of his dear friends and so many of his students. There have been a lot more laughs than sobs, but if it's all the same to the Psalmist, instead of fixing his gaze on 70, the O.B. plans to double down on 140, mindful all the while that if he is still around five years hence and means to do symmetrical justice to the occasion, his driving still needs a lot of work.

When Georgia Senator Thomas E. Watson died in September 1922, a New York Times writer described a "violent career" marked by "a certain mental instability, and over excitability of temperament, even the presence of actual delusions, such as the hallucination of persecution."  It should not be surprising to pick up more than a whiff of many current appraisals of President Donald J. Trump in this long-ago assessment of Watson, whose troubled life suggests many striking and ultimately disturbing similarities in the traits, temperament, and personalities of two men who came to symbolize the darker side of populism.

Born in Georgia in 1856, Tom Watson transcended his impoverished childhood to establish a thriving legal practice before emerging in the 1890s as the most prominent and perceptive spokesman for the downtrodden rural masses of the South, daring even to advocate political cooperation between the races as the best strategy for combatting their corporate and financial oppressors (whose hand, of course, President Trump now undertakes to strengthen.) Elected to Congress in 1890, Watson authored the congressional resolution that paved the way for the Rural Free Delivery system, only to see three consecutive re-election bids thwarted by outright fraud, including the coercion and bribery of the black constituents whose votes he courted. When his fellow Populists were scammed into co-endorsing Democratic presidential candidate William Jennings Bryan in 1896, Watson was left with the futile and humiliating task of running unaccompanied as the party's vice-presidential nominee.

Watson withdrew from the active political scene in the wake of this debacle only to re-emerge in less than a decade calling not for interracial cooperation but brutal political and social repression of black Americans. Not only did Watson now want to disfranchise the black Georgians who votes he once courted and reduce them to a "recognized peasantry," but the man who once urged that lynching be made "odious" to whites was now insisting that "lynch law is a good sign . . . that a sense of justice yet lives among the people." Not content simply with persecuting black people, by 1910 he was using his weekly newspaper and monthly magazine to foment scorn and suspicion of the Roman Catholic "Hierarchy" and the "fat Dago" atop it and reveal how "The Confessional Is Used by Priests to Ruin Women." A few years later, Watson locked on to another vulnerable target, unloosing an incendiary anti-Semitic torrent that figured critically in inciting the infamous 1915 lynching of Leo Frank, the "young libertine Jew" dubiously convicted of murdering Mary Phagan, a young girl worker in the Atlanta pencil factory he supervised. When the governor commuted Frank's death sentence, Watson declared that Georgia "HAS BEEN RAPED!" by a conspiracy of "rich Jews" determined that "no aristocrat of their race should die for the death of a working-class Gentile."  When Frank was seized by a mob and hung, Watson  praised the lynchers and defiantly warned outraged northerners that their "vilification" might prompt the resurrection of the Ku Klux Klan in order to defend the South's right to "HOME RULE." Watson's prophecy was fulfilled a few months later, and, as his biographer C. Vann Woodward noted, that if "any mortal man" were responsible for "releasing the forces of human malice and ignorance and prejudice, which the Klan merely mobilized that man was Thomas E. Watson."

 Writing in 1938, Woodward left the impression that Watson's seemingly abrupt embrace of bigotry and intolerance was the mark of a man ultimately driven mad by the incessant frustrations of his earlier career. Yet, he also presented considerable evidence of Watson's mental illness that surfaced well before he burst on the political scene. It is here that, despite their disparate backgrounds, certain critical similarities between Thomas E. Watson and Donald J. Trump become more apparent.  Unlike the born-on-third base Trump, the poverty-stricken young Watson, was unable to swing more than a couple of years of college education.  Yet Watson was nearly nine when the Civil War ended, old enough to recall the much cushier circumstances he enjoyed until emancipation took his wealthy grandfather's slaves and his own drunken and dissolute father quickly squandered what remained of the family's land and financial resources. Gripped by an indelible and at times self-destructive nostalgia for the near-idyllic comfort and security of his early childhood, as a young collegian, Tom compensated for his shabby clothing with intimidating displays of oratorical prowess and a boisterous, often bullying campus persona that screamed "chip on my shoulder."

Even as a practicing attorney, Watson's thin skin and combustive pride had triggered altercations with colleagues and verbal abuse of those close to him. "The better part of me is poisoned," he lamented at age twenty-six .He had "imagined enemies where there were none, [and] been tortured by indignities which were the creatures of my own fancy." The same might well be said about Donald Trump, though it is a virtual certainty that it will never be said by him.

There is no scarcity of references to a youthful Donald Trump as combatively "headstrong "and an aggressive "loudmouth bully." Banished to military school in the eighth grade, he was given to exaggerating the earnings from his father's real estate deals for the benefit of his classmates. Driven "to be number one," fond of "compliments," and eager "to be noticed," he made sure of the latter as a senior by ostentatiously strolling the campus in the company of "gorgeous women, dressed out of Saks Fifth Avenue."

            Whatever their ages, both men revealed an insatiable hunger, at once pathetic and pathological, for vindication and acclaim, cloaked in an ego every bit as oversized as the deep-seated inferiority complex that fueled it.  No accomplishment, however exalted, seemed to offer either of them more than the most fleeting satisfaction. Neither of Tom Watson's respective elections to the Georgia legislature and both houses of Congress, gave him more than ephemeral happiness before giving way to  perpetual agitation and discontent.  Even after capturing a U.S. Senate seat in 1920 at age sixty-five, Watson spent the final eighteen months of his life in that traditionally august body lashing out at colleagues, largely for perceived personal slights. What vitriol he had left was directed at mysterious conspirators, like the Iowa-born Secretary of Commerce, Herbert Hoover, whom Watson dubbed an "Englishman" while demanding to know "the secret influence which suddenly put him at the head of things in this country."

In Trump's case, the warm afterglow of his inauguration as President of the United States lasted scarcely twelve hours before he was complaining of a vengeful media conspiracy to underrepresent turnout for his big moment, only to move quickly to charging that it took several million "illegal" ballots to deny him a popular vote majority. As columnist Maureen Dowd observed, "Those who go into the Oval Office with chips on their shoulders and deep wells of insecurity . . . are not suddenly aglow with self-assurance." Clearly, like Watson entering the Senate, Trump did not check "the tantrums, the delusions, the deceptions, the self-doubts and overcompensation," that comprise his not inconsiderable emotional baggage at the White House door...

There is no concrete evidence that Donald Trump's sustained and ill-concealed appeals to prejudices, fears, and frustrations has yet led directly to anything so horrific as the lynching of Leo Frank. Yet the sharp spike in reports of gratuitous verbal and emotional abuse of racial, ethnic, and religious minorities that accompanied his campaign and ascent to the Oval Office fairly reek of sulfurous portent. Woodward thought Tom Watson's scurrilous sensationalism gained purchase primarily among increasingly marginalized whites "frustrated in their age-long, and eternally losing struggle against a hostile industrial economy" and thus eager for new, "more exciting crusades against more vulnerable antagonists [especially] anything strange and therefore evil." This characterization is surely more than moderately evocative of Donald Trump's malleable core constituency of white voters whose economic status and prospects, not to mention social and political standing, have been on the decline for some two generations.

Trump's reliance on what he calls "truthful exaggeration" is amply documented in a good-sized and still-accreting mountain of grossly exaggerated claims about his popularity, wealth, influence, philanthropy, etc. Tom Watson was not exactly a slouch in this department either. Disseminated strictly at his direction, a mere "rumor" that an angry mob was threatening his life was sufficient to draw hundreds of followers to stand guard at his home around the clock. Like our current president, Watson also gloried is his near-dictatorial sway over his supporters, routinely ordering them to vote for a certain candidate in one election and, often as not, against him in the next, or commanding them to show up whenever and wherever he wanted to make a grand entrance to a thunderous welcome akin, one journalist thought, to what might have greeted "proud Caesar" upon entering the gates of "Imperial Rome."

It is not difficult to see in Watson the "anti-social behavior, sadism, aggressiveness, paranoia and grandiosity" that underlie some psychotherapists' drive-by diagnoses of the President's "malignant narcissism," a condition they deem "incurable." This unfortunate prognosis may explain why, instead of being elevated by the high offices they attained, both Watson and, thus far, Trump, managed to reduce the dignity and stature of their respective positions.  In the end, the critical difference between those positions simply underscores the ominous implications of the similarities in psychological makeup between the two men, one a lone, ineffectual outlier hemmed in by ninety-five bored and dismissive peers, and the other, also delusional, but uniquely empowered to destroy national and global stability whenever it serves his purpose, or, one suspects, simply tickles his fancy.


This is an expanded version of a piece first posted on the History News Network.

 

Like Clockwork or Not, the Orange One Still Cometh

   

Longsuffering patrons of this establishment need not be told that the Ol' Bloviator is not much given to seeing the metaphorical tankard as anything other than half-empty. Those who know him personally also know that he is responsible for making many an actual tankard completely empty. During the holiday season, at least, the O.B. has traditionally striven for a less baleful, more hopeful, cheerful outlook, which in sufficiently intoxicating doses can actually lead him to feel, for a few days at least, grudgingly optimistic about the future of humankind. Unfortunately, his strivings this year to "keep on the sunny side" have thus far availed him zilch.

The O.B. had no celebration plans, regardless of the outcome on November 8, and in the first days that followed, he did his damnedest to discount the ramifications of his fellow citizens' electoral embrace of the decidedly greater evil of the two evils confronting them. There ensued a truly Herculean effort to suspend his well-honed instincts for disbelief and entertain just the faintest hope that having shocked nine-tenths of the human race, himself charitably included, by actually being elected president, the Orange One,--a.k.a. " the O.O"--might now cease and desist in his bombast, bullying, boorishness, lying, scapegoating, etc. In other words, maybe, just maybe, he would summon from somewhere hidden deep within himself, the self-control requisite to doing justice to the job he had so ardently and effectively pursued.

Well, so much for that. It turns out that not only is there no moderating impulse within our next prez, there is absolutely nothing within him at all. His innards are without form and void. His outtards are where it's all happening, and it is important to understand this above all else right now. The O.B. don't have much truck with all these diagnoses of ol' Orangey as a narcissist or self-delusional psychopath or whatever. It ain't all that complicated. The man is just an asshole. Not simply of the garden variety, to be sure, or even of the sort that comes along only once in a great while. Indeed, it would seem in this truly extraordinary case that the Almighty himself, having finally lost patience with seeing so many of his human creations seemingly hell-bent on establishing their individualized asshole bona-fides, He had decided to show them how it was really done. Throwing himself totally into his work, he proceeded to construct the ultimate aspirational model for assholes everywhere. Not just one for the here and now, but one whose monstrously obnoxious, befouling presence would continue to induce shudders and grimaces across centuries and millennia yet unimagined. Struck by the brilliance of his own handiwork the Creator then succumbed to the puckishness that is sometimes his wont, and opted to showcase his achievement on the biggest stage available

If, somehow, the campaign itself did not fully validate this unflattering version of  his nature and origins,  how about the copious examples of  President-Elect Orange's aggressive disregard, not simply for official protocol, but international stability, the benefits of  a smooth transfer of power, or the need for a unity after a campaign propelled by the politics of polarization and division.? On this latter point, it appears that the O.O., who continues to go merrily about the business of mocking, taunting, and demonizing those whom he has vanquished is intent on establishing himself as history's worst winner. More troubling still is the prospect that he sees the next four years as a continuous victory lap in which he gets to strut, posture and encourage his adoring minions to greater heights--make that greater depths--of bitterness and animosity toward anyone who has dared to stand in his way.

The O.B. started flatly telling folks early on that O.O. actually envisions the presidency of the United States as, for a person of his incredible talents, certainly, nothing more than a part-time job. Let somebody else cool their heels in those butt-numbing daily briefings on threats to national security. Let the kids sit in on as many high-level meetings as possible so that they can assist him in assuring that the business of America is not just "business" but HIS business. Then there is the proposed cabinet of the Great Orange "populist," which is still a long way from being complete but already boasts an aggregate worth estimated between $13 and $16 billion--50 times that of W's first  "millionaires club "cabinet and more than the annual GDP's of some 70 small countries. In keeping with his promises to save the American working class, the poseur-elect has tapped a labor secretary who thinks the current minimum wage of $10.10 per hour is too high, and to see to their health care needs, he has designated a physician who is primarily interested in healing his suffering fellow physicians while stripping millions of their healthcare with nothing resembling a replacement to fill the void. The forces of Orange are quick to cite his quick fellow-up on his vow to force Carrier to abandon its plans to ship some 2,000 jobs at an Indiana plant to Mexico.  It is true enough that Carrier's mother company, United Technologies, does a fair amount of business with the feds, but it's also fair to suspect the prez-elect's rhetorical stick -or shtick--may have been insufficient to seal the deal (which actually saved only half those jobs) without the $7 million tax-break carrot served up by the state of Indiana (Wow! The O.O. must have really done a sales job on Indiana's governor. . . . Oh, wait!) There will doubtless be other such charades such charades for a while at least, but please don't think the O.B too cynical for suspecting that not many of those cabinet-level corporate bigwigs were  enticed from the boardroom by the prospect of championing  the cause of the folks on the assembly line.

            Some are inclined to credit the Orange One for at least pulling back on his demand for top-secret security clearances for his offsprings, but the O.B.'s guess here is that he simply realized he could get better, quicker intel from his best bud Vlad Putin. As luck would have it, ol Puty has just picked up a great new source in Michael Flynn, the proposed National Security Advisor who is as comfortable sharing information of the classified sort as he is in disseminating total fabrications. (BTW, since it's safe to assume you are reading this Vlad, word is Mike wants to talk to you about some things Billy Clinton said about your daughters. Also, don't be concerned that nothing has been announced yet about Sarah Palin. An eager-to please Orange One will come up with something to occupy her because he truly understands how creepy it must feel to know she is constantly staring at your country.)

Alas, for those who are resting their hopes on our vaunted system of checks and balances, don't let them rest too easy. Obama already showed us how much can be done by executive order, and while, on the face of it, these can be rolled back, the damage they might do in the interim may not be so quickly or simply repaired.  The simple fact of the matter is that the framers of the Constitution and subsequent legislation pertaining to executive power and privilege thought and wrote broadly about reasonable questions that might arise, never in their wildest nightmares imagining an audacity even remotely on the scale of that which is simply SOP for the new guy. For example, search the regulations on what and how the president can earn or receive in gifts while in office for the section labeled "In the event the President-elect wants to continue to produce 'Celebrity Apprentice...'"

Washington was rocked badly by the invasion of President-elect Andrew Jackson and his rustic supporters who reportedly turned the inaugural festivities, still held in the White House at that point, into a furniture- and carpet- destroying frenzy of boozing, belching, farting, and fighting. Strong-willed and occasionally volatile, Jackson himself simply scoffed at a Supreme Court ruling that would have blocked the removal of the Cherokee from Georgia, but even he knew when to bluster and when to back off, in a way not suggested by many recent actions of the O.O., who, as they say at Harvard, is sooey-generous, and not in a good way.

As he did during the campaign, said prez-elect continues to convey toward the Republican Party something too much akin to outright disdain to worry about finding a better word. How long do you think his torrid bromance with Paul Ryan will last?  The prospect of a president simultaneously battling not only the opposition but his own party--and let's not forget the lying liberal media--hardly seems out of the question. A lot of Republicans bit big chunks out of their tongues because they were afraid of jeopardizing their own campaigns this fall.  Duly re-elected, will they all maintain their locked-jaw deference and for how long? If the Big Orange's legislative agenda is to be thwarted, that surely must happen in the Senate, where some see a glimmer of  hope for a fractionally bipartisan Senate coalition of Democrats and a smattering of Republicans such as John McCain and Lindsey Graham in numbers at least sufficient to block any ultra-ultra-idiotic initiatives. Should this come to pass, what next? We are dealing here with the explosive ego and a temperament of a man to whom mere opposition is anathema and a definitive "no" from the Congress or the courts is almost certain to set the stage for a firestorm of popular outrage deftly kindled by a master arsonist who hardly seems the sort to shy away from provoking a constitutional crisis in order to get his way. And, understand, this might be the best we can actually achieve, for in the face of what appears to be the greatest threat to the presidency, and perhaps to the entire governing process, in this nation's history, gridlock is far from the worst possible outcome.

 

HICKS IN THE STICKS SHOULDN'T BE THE PUNDIT'S QUICK FIX

There is but little satisfaction for the old Bloviator in having been no wrong-er than the best of them in his projections and expectations for November 8. No small part of his chagrin may be traced to the smart-assy skepticism evinced in this jewel from his pre-election pontification right here on this very site:

 

The Republican ranks may also hold a number of "silent voters" too embarrassed to tell a pollster that they actually plan to cast their lot with The Donald on November 8, but while their boy may fare well enough in the popular tally to sorely discomfit the Left, Middle, and even some on the Right,  it appears at this juncture at least that these resolutely mute voters will suddenly have to let loose with one hell of a bellow to affect the actual outcome.

 

Well bellow they did by golly! Political number cruncher extraordinaire Sam Wang, who vowed to eat a bug  if Donald Trump got more than 240 electoral votes--and thus learned on national television that crickets do not in fact taste like chicken--may have come as close as anybody will to explaining why so many of the pollsters got it wrong. Wang suggests that "we retire the concept of the undecided voter. Based on cognitive science, so-called 'undecided' voters might be mentally committed to a choice, but either can't verbalize it or want to keep it to themselves." This would be all the more likely, needless to say, when the national media and a big chunk of the interweb are awash in depictions of one candidate as one or two evolutionary cycles behind a pig, and those inclined to hold their noses and support the pig are not interested in revealing a position they might then be forced to defend.

 

At any rate, one of the most striking things to the O. B. about the campaign and its aftermath was the readiness of journalists, commentators and Internet photoshoppers alike to file so much of the blame, first for the stubbornly persistent viability of Trump's candidacy, and then for the knee- buckling shock of his election, on the ignorant, knuckle-dragging bigots who continue to rally to the symbol of the Confederate flag.  

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Trump enthusiasts have been seen waving the Rebel banner in Traverse City, Durango, and a slew of other decidedly northern outposts. Yet the media and blogosphere's visual fixation the flag seem all too suggestive of an impulse to stretch the regrettably enduring, self-delusional nonsense about the "Southernization of America" into a suitably uncomplicated explanation for an unthinkable national debacle. For some two generations now, way too many American liberals have been beguiled by this facile trope, which blames the nation's shift to the right since the 1960s on the South's rapid political, economic, and cultural ascent.  If early takes on the 2016 presidential election, which chalk up Trump's upset triumph to the "revenge" of the rural white voter in traditionally blue northern states and essentially leave it at that, are any indication, we may soon see "ruralization" supplant "Southernization" as the primary threat to political liberalism in this country. 

(Dare we undermine so simple and straightforward a take on so complex and unexpected an occurrence by asking just how severe this threat could be in light of the ongoing, and in some cases dramatic, shrinkage of the rural white population? As Kinky Friedman would most assuredly say, "Why the Hell, Not?" )

There is surely no denying that ardor for Mr. Trump burned hottest and sometimes manifested itself most frightfully among nonmetropolitan whites whose turnout figures exceeded all expectations this year, most notably in the Clinton camp, where supreme confidence in the strength of urban support appeared to make rural a marginal consideration.  Still, there are fundamental flaws in the rush to lay Trump's victory off on the hicks in the sticks. The most obvious of these lies in the raw numbers showing that, with half of the population now clustered in just 146 of the nation's largest counties, rural America supplied but 17 percent of the votes cast this year. In Wisconsin, for example, Donald Trump carried rural Florence County by 71 percent compared to Mitt Romney's 63 percent in 2012, but this amounted to a grand total of 252 additional votes. Fond du Lac County is larger, but Trump's 2+ percent margin over Romney still adds up to only 699 votes. On the other hand, Ms. Clinton trailed Barack Obama's 2012 total by 58,000 in Milwaukee alone on her way to losing Wisconsin by just over 24,000 votes, and her vote in metro Detroit counties fell some 83,000 short of Obama's in a state that she came up scarcely 13,000 ballots short. In Pennsylvania meanwhile, the estimated 130,000 African American no-shows roughly doubled Ms. Clinton's margin of loss, but it isn't simply that, as some writers for Politico observed, "black voters in Philadelphia didn't love Clinton more than the displaced steelworkers hated the people like her who dealt away their jobs to foreign countries," it's that  countervailing white and black Democratic turnout in numbers even approaching those of 2012 failed to materialize in the largest urban/metro centers in three states that, rural and small town white outrage notwithstanding, could otherwise have made Hillary Clinton president. In 2016, as in so many elections, the significance of one trend was dependent on another, as high rural white turnout coincided with slumping urban black turnout.

On the national scale, there is no denying that Trump cashed in heavily among whites without college degrees, but that should not obscure his victory with college-educated white men and his 45 percent tally with white women with college degrees. Likewise, writing off   his election to the success of his "populistic" appeal to the anger and paranoia of economically and culturally imperiled whites amounts to making unlikely populists of voters with incomes exceeding $100,000 in key states like Michigan, Wisconsin, and North Carolina with whom he bested not only Ms. Clinton, but his Republican predecessor in 2012.

It seems more comforting to many commentators to rationalize this election as a distressingly powerful affirmation of Donald Trump by increasingly marginalized rural whites than to entertain the prospect, her millionish popular vote plurality aside (She was running against Donald Trump, for God's sake!), of a potentially more telling rejection of his opponent across a broad spectrum of the electorate..  The decidedly underwhelming general enthusiasm for Ms. Clinton that had been almost palpable throughout the campaign became a crushing reality on election day, even within her own party. Where Donald Trump claimed the votes of 91 percent of white Republicans, Hillary Clinton won the support of only 84 percent of whites in her party. It was anticipated that she would run behind President Obama in the black vote nationally, but perhaps not by a full five points, which hurt all the worse in light of a general slippage in black turnout.  In an interesting slant, a Pew Foundation survey shows Ms. Clinton ran behind Barack Obama in 2012 with Americans of every Protestant and Roman Catholic demographic, most notably coming up 8 points shy with Hispanic Catholics and trailing by 2 percent among the "religiously unaffiliated." Overall, once again, even presumed outrage over Trump's promised wall and mass deportations, failed to yield enough of a Hispanic/Latino "surge" to be of much help to Ms. Clinton, who actually trailed Obama's 2012 performance with this group by 6 points.

Beyond the brutal, but ultimately legitimate question of whether Hillary Clinton is "likable enough" to be president, she clearly did herself no favors in rejecting advice to pay more attention to blue collar voters instead of running what seemed to many outside her little bubble as an aloof, glam-besotted, utterly tone deaf campaign typified all too well by the $250,000-a ticket gala where Barbara Streisand provided the entertainment, but HRC made the wrong kind of headlines by dismissing half of Trump's supporters as loathsome, bigoted "deplorables." It is easy enough to see why not only rural whites acutely sensitive to slights, but a good many others in the suburbs and elsewhere may have jumped off the fence on Trump's side at that very point.

None of this is to suggest that Ms. Clinton did not face serious opposition rooted in racial and sexual bigotry, not to mention the economic and cultural anxiety so ruthlessly and recklessly exploited by her opponent. Nor is there reason to dispute that these pathologies seem more readily and menacingly apparent in some rural areas than elsewhere. Yet, it would only compound the tragedy that so many Americans already see in this election to consign these insidious traits and attitudes solely to those who lack the sophistication to conceal them or, sadder still, merely see nothing to gain by trying. If anything, though, it would be even more unfortunate to overlook a clearly substantial, much more influential and advantaged segment of the electorate who might deplore such hatred and blind anger publicly right up until they close the curtain in the voting booth where, upon rethinking, these sentiments, however regrettable, suddenly become a tolerable means of furthering their own class and political ends.  

Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin is a big-time Hillary devotee who proudly casts himself as a representative of the "educated, socially progressive, Hollywood" crowd, even as he is cast by others as the embodiment of "why people hate liberals." Sorkin was not necessarily incorrect, however, in telling his daughters in a livid morning-after rant published in Vanity Fair (Where else?) that "the Klan won last night. White nationalists. Sexists, racists and buffoons." His mistake, and a most egregious one at that, lay in implying that they or others of their ilk could have pulled it off without a lot of help, some of it admittedly inadvertent, from a great many others who scarcely fit the conveniently narrow and villainous "Trumpster" profile he had constructed, including, ironically enough, the likes of Sorkin himself.

A less expansive version of this rant appeared over yonder on LiketheDew.com.

 http://likethedew.com/2016/11/16/hicks-in-the-sticks-shouldnt-be-the-pundits-quick-fix/#.WC3rK9UrKn9

WHEN THE WORST WE CAN IMAGINE IS THE BEST WE CAN DO

Well, Buckaroos, believe it or not, it is time once again for the Ol' Bloviator's fearless and feckless quadrennial estimate of our ever-sorrier state of electoral affairs. It's hard to recall, or even find in the historical record, a presidential campaign where the choice put to the sovereign voter has come down to so joyless a decision on which candidate is less repulsive, however marginally, than the other. Let's face it, we can readily check the "liar," "corrupt," "schemer" and several other boxes in the nefarious for both, and if Donald Trump loses this race--it is hard to think of any "winner" emerging from this God-awful mess-- it will be because he has pulled off the Herculean achievement of being more repugnant than his opponent. (In fact, he has supposedly racked up the most prodigious negativity ratings in the storied history of Gallup tracking.)

 Trump's opponent, meanwhile, may garner a more than substantial electoral vote margin, but she entered the campaign as largely self-damaged goods, and as over-the-top as Trump's attacks and characterizations of her may have seemed, she will emerge, almost unthinkably, with her credibility even more tattered. If she does put up the anticipated big numbers nationally, she will do so while providing the almost scandalously scanty coattails of someone who claimed the election by a proverbial gnat's whisker. Yes, the O.B. knows as many four Democrats are poised to pick up senate seats, but if they do, their thank-you notes should go not to the person at the head of their ticket for lifting them up, but to the GOP standard bearer for pulling his own people down. Constant rumors of unethical and immoral conduct and innuendo are a family tradition for the Clintons, as are their predictable counter-claims that they are being persecuted by shadowy right-wing ideologues and other bitterly partisan conspirators. We may be assured that even if the email flap that has dogged Hillary's campaign this year ultimately dies down, her time in office, however long it may be, will be constantly punctuated by rat-a-tats of disclosures and allegations of ethical misconduct, tantamount to the serial "bimbo eruptions" that dogged her hyper-sexed hubby.

Perhaps we should wait to see what actually happens on November 8, but where's the fun in that? From where things stand right now, it seems a reasonable bet that a great many Americans will go to bed that night relieved that Donald Trump is not going to be president but depressed that Hillary Clinton is. Those curious about how the nuts and bolts of this seemingly contradictory projection came together should look first to the vaunted "Blue Wall" of eighteen states, plus D. C., accounting for 242 of the 270 electoral votes needed to win that have voted Democratic in the last six elections. We were assured several times this fall that the Blue Wall no longer exists, but you certainly can't prove it by the current polls, which show Trump either out of the running or trailing significantly in all of them. The Republicans have a "Red Wall" of their own, of course, but consisting principally of the bulk of the Old Confederacy plus the fly-over states, it boasts but 102 electoral votes. (See the adjoining chart showing the Blue Wall/Red Wall division of the electoral vote pie.)

Consistency crop50.jpg

We all know the polls are "rigged," of course, but they are still the best thing we have to go on, and they currently show Trump with little prospect of chipping a single brick off the Blue Wall. If we look at how Trump is faring poll-wise compared to the actual showing of Mitt Romney in 2012, he is trailing in North Carolina, but seems to have at least a decent shot at besting Romney by claiming the "toss-up" states of Iowa, Ohio, and Florida. Accounting for 53 electoral votes among them, these states are no small prizes,but, according to the accompanying projection, courtesy of realclearpolitics.com, even if he pulls this off, he would still stand at only 234 electoral votes compared to Hillary's projected 304, leaving him well shy of the magical 270 total needed to make 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue go all Trumpazilla. 

RCP50 % crop.jpg

Beyond that, Trump is facing enough of a challenge in traditionally red-to-the-roots states like Georgia, Arizona, and, for God's sake, UTAH (!) that his campaign has had to devote precious time and resources simply to hold onto his once-presumed base--time that could have been spent in states he needs desperately to drag into the GOP column.

Curiously, although Trump seems to be shut out of the White House by an impenetrable barrier of Democratic voting consistency, he actually owes the continuing viability of his candidacy to a corresponding pattern of Republican partisan rigidity. In fact, Sam Wang points out that despite all the apparent ups and downs of his campaign, D.T.'s support has remained "level as a pond" at roughly 41 percent.  Citing the rapid rise in partisan polarization over the last generation, Mr. Wang notes that from 1952 to 1992, the average swing or range, plus to minus, in a presidential candidate's support over the course of a campaign was 17 percent, while, over the last six elections it has shrunk to only 8 percent. More remarkably still, despite what seemed one politically disastrous incident after another, including his thrashing at the hands of the family of Capt. Humayan Khan, Donald Trump's support has varied by only 4 points, between 39 and 43 percent. The pundits have asserted more than once that Trump's backers represent a sorely disaffected minority upset over immigration, outsourcing, political correctness, and other conditions contributing to a sense of lost opportunity and relevance. This may well be true of his most strident followers, but if you are looking for somebody likely to vote for ol' Donnie, your best bet is still your nearest Republican (Ditto and vice-versa for a Hillary voter, as well )  The Republican ranks may also hold a number of "silent voters" too embarrassed to tell a pollster that they actually plan to cast their lot with The Donald on November 8, but while their boy may fare well enough in the popular tally to sorely discomfit the Left, Middle, and even some on the Right,  it appears at this juncture at least that these resolutely mute voters will suddenly have to let loose with one hell of a bellow to affect the actual outcome.

The O. B. has recently become less interested in the campaign itself than in its aftermath. He has already noted that Hillary is likely to emerge looking and feeling as though she has done fifteen rounds with Boom Boom Mancini. (Eat your heart out, Warren Zevon.) Beyond that, when Trump's irresponsible, vengeful nonsense about a rigged election and his invocation of the "Second Amendment crowd" elicit comments to the effect that if Ms. Clinton is allowed to take office, and "has to go by any means necessary, it will be done," we are reminded that the demise of Trump the Candidate will not mark the end of Trump the Menace or, more troubling still, the powerfully frightening mindset he has so recklessly exploited. 

Emmett Till's "Then" Isn't Our "Now"*

             Sixty-one years ago this month, a Tallahatchie County, Mississippi, jury acquitted Roy Bryant and J. W. Milam despite a pile of  damning evidence that the two had abducted, beaten, and then shot Emmett Till, a young Chicagoan scarcely a month past his fourteenth birthday, for violating a strict racial taboo by whistling at Bryant's wife. Since that day, the Emmett Till case has often been cited as both a catalyst for the Civil Rights movement and, more recently, as a trigger for black mobilization on a scale comparable to the "Black Lives Matter" movement. Understandable as they might be, these leaps to conclusions and connections simply don't square with either historical or contemporary reality.

 After Emmett's body was fished from the Tallahatchie River, with his neck bound by barbed wire to a cotton gin fan, his mother, Mamie Till Bradley, was determined to let "the world see what they had done to my boy" and insisted on an open-casket funeral which revealed a corpse so horribly bloated and bludgeoned that it was barely recognizable as human. Not only did tens of thousands of mourners in Chicago file by the horrific sight in the casket, but when Jet Magazine ran an exclusive photograph of Emmett Till's battered and bloated head, that issue sold out so quickly that more copies were printed, and the photo ran the following week as well. The trial itself drew coverage from the major television networks and more than seventy reporters and photographers, representing such major print outlets as the New York Times, Life, Look, and Time, and several black newspapers and magazines and a sprinkling of foreign publications as well.

The trial proceedings offered a real-life template for a fictional southern courtroom drama straight out of central casting, complete with a big-bellied sheriff spewing racial epithets and a defense attorney who exhorted an all-white jury in a 63 percent black county to do their "Anglo-Saxon" duty by freeing the defendants. Compounding the affront to justice, in January 1956, Look Magazine published a story in which Bryant and Milam, their tongues loosened by a nice paycheck and the shield of double jeopardy, admitted to the crime, with Milam explaining coldly he had decided to "make an example" of young Emmett "just so everbody [sic] can know how me and my folks stand."

Yet, even after singer Nat Cole was brutally beaten onstage by Klansmen in Birmingham a few months later, neither the television networks or major U.S. papers like the New York Times chose to make southern racial violence a focal point, and with Cold War anxieties rendering social agitation seriously suspect, a year after Emmett's slaying scarcely 6 percent of Gallup Poll respondents outside the South thought civil rights was the nation's most pressing issue. Meanwhile, fearful of a savage backlash from white southerners, television executives forced award-winning screenwriter and "Twilight Zone" creator Rod Serling to eviscerate not one but two screen plays (the first in 1956 and another 1958) based on the Emmett Till story by cutting out any reference or suggestion of southern settings, characters, or racial practices before they were aired.

 If John Egerton was correct in observing that while the Till case "stirred the nation's conscience momentarily, the attention span was short and the South slipped back into the shadows," what of its supposed catalytic effect on the crusade to end racial injustice? It was true enough that when questioned about it, Rosa Parks admitted that thinking of poor Emmett had strengthened her resolve in the three-month interval between his death and her act of defiance that sparked the Montgomery Bus Boycott in December 1955. Yet plans for such an action had not only been in the works well before Till's slaying, but were modeled on a similar boycott by blacks in Baton Rouge two years earlier. NAACP leaders in Mississippi and elsewhere were also filing petitions for compliance with the Brown decision before Till's murder.

            While the adult generation of black activists were vividly familiar with the South's long history of racial atrocities, their children, especially those in Emmett's age group, were much more vulnerable to the horrors of the Till affair, especially the terrifying casket photo so jealously guarded by Jet that few of their white peers ever saw it. Young Cleveland Sellers could not shake the feeling that the ghastly figure in the casket "could have been me or any other black kid around that same age," They were only teenagers in 1955, but it was surely no coincidence that, when a new decade dawned with less than 1 percent of school-age southern black children in integrated classrooms and southern black voter registration only 4 percent higher than it had been in 1956, it was four frustrated members of the Till generation who boldly took seats at an all-white lunch counter in Greensboro in 1960. This action, in turn, helped to spawn the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee whose more aggressive and confrontational approach attracted a number of Till's peers, including Sellers and Joyce Ladner, who could easily identify "ten SNCC workers who saw that picture [of Till's body] in Jet magazine, [and] remember it as the key thing about their youth that was emblazoned in their minds."

 Instead of an immediate and dramatic spark for black activism, the Emmett Till tragedy proved more akin to a seed pod, which, at maturity, released a deferred but timely burst of pent-up energy and anger from a young adult generation whose adolescence had been taken hostage by fear. Current concerns about an extended spate of controversial killings of black Americans have stirred several well-known filmmakers to revisit the Till story. This is welcome news, especially if they resist such facile comparisons as likening the impact of the 1955 murder of Emmett Till to that of  the 2014 Ferguson, Missouri slaying of Michael Brown, which is seen as triggering the "Black Lives Matter" movement, on the grounds that "both events galvanized a black community that had been unheard and spawned movements around what many saw as particularly egregious racial incidents." In reality, the Black Lives Matter campaign testifies to nothing so much as the hard-won advances in black, political, social, economic, and technological empowerment that have marked the last three generations.  Such a rapid, aggressive, coordinated and broad-based response would have been unthinkable to black leaders struggling in the 1950s to mobilize their impoverished, disfranchised, uneducated, and historically brutalized constituencies in an era of virtually unchecked racial terrorism when, by any valid measure, black lives mattered far less than they do today.


*A modified version of this essay appeared under a different title on TIME.COM.

 

 

WISH THIS NO LONGER RANG TRUE AFTER 15 YEARS

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

September 12, 2001 Wednesday, Home Edition

Americans left to fear unseen enemy;

BYLINE: JAMES C. COBB

SOURCE: For the Journal-Constitution

SECTION: Editorial; Pg. 23A

LENGTH: 368 words

On Jan. 6, 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt promised to forge "a world founded upon four essential freedoms," including "freedom from fear."
But our victory in World War II soon dissolved into a nuclear arms race fueled by the Cold War. The generation that spent portions of their childhoods practicing for direct nuclear hits on their elementary schools can hardly look back with much nostalgia on that era.

Yet, even as the Cold War ended and we breathed a collective sigh of relief at the diminished likelihood of a global nuclear holocaust, we were already slipping into a new era of fear and uncertainty, one in which the enemy could be internal, as well as external, and essentially invisible, one in which extravagant defense budgets and massive missile stockpiles count for less than the ruthless and calculated fanaticism of relatively small numbers of unseen and often unknown enemies.
Our inability to protect even the Pentagon and perhaps even the White House or the Capitol served chilling notice that, when all is said and done, a terrorist can get closer to President Bush, than the latter, for all his resources, can get to him. An unseen enemy can make not just the residents of New York or Washington afraid, but can implant that fear into the hearts of the rest of America as well.
This reality came through to me in a number of ways, including the cancellation of classes at the University of Georgia and the anxious investigation of a "suspicious" van parked near the federal building in Athens. However, it was local reaction here in Hart County that I found most enlightening. The mayor of Hartwell, a woman of Lebanese extraction and Episcopal faith, urged citizens to offer their prayers for the victims and their families "in their own tradition." To that end, churches in town and throughout the county opened their doors to the prayerful.
Yet, for all the sincere expressions of grief and compassion, I feel certain that explicitly or not, those prayers also embodied a personal plea for the freedom from fear that, despite our victories in World War II and the Cold War, seems more elusive now than it did when Roosevelt promised to pursue it 60 years ago.

Bloviate:

"To orate verbosely and windily."

Bloviate is most closely associated with President Warren G. Harding, who used it frequently and was given to long winded speeches. H.L. Mencken said of Harding:

"He writes the worst English that I've ever encountered. It reminds me of a string of wet sponges; it reminds me of tattered washing on the line; it reminds me of stale bean soup, of college yells, of dogs barking idiotically through endless nights. It is so bad that a sort of grandeur creeps into it. It drags itself out of the dark abysm of pish, and crawls insanely up the top most pinnacle of posh. It is rumble and bumble. It is flap and doodle. It is balder and dash."

Cobbloviate dedicates itself to maintaining the high standards established by President Harding and described so eloquently by Mr. Mencken. However,the bloviations recorded here do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the mangement of Flagpole.com,nor,for that matter, are they very likely to be in accord with those of any sane, right-thinking individual or group anywhere in the known universe.

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