Quote Of The Day

Political scientist Jonathan Bernstein rips into Drew Westen for accusing Obama of not being more FDR-like.

You know what can FDR kicked down the road for political reasons, to be dealt with after an election? A little something called WORLD WAR II.

Read the whole delicious teardown.

Crashing The Blame Game

When the entire global economy comes within inches of collapse, you can be sure there will be plenty of finger pointing. The direction of the pointed finger generally depended on your preconceived political point of view.

Listen to the Limbaugh/Hannity/Axis every day? Then you probably think it was the government forcing banks to loan to irresponsible people. Read Daily Kos on a regular basis? Then, it's all about unregulated greed with Wall Street running wild. If you're the Tea Party.....well, it's probably a weird mix of both, but really, you're just pissed about government money heading in six different directions and none of them yours.

I will admit that I've struggle to make sense of it all, but there's one thing that never seemed to jibe with reality.. Sure there were irresponsible loans and irresponsible borrowers and I'm sure Fannie Mae had its part to play, but how does Dudley Downbeat down the street taking a second mortgage to buy a boat result in global economic armageddon?

Based on one emailer to Andrew Sullivan, Dudley Downbeat had his role in the play but he was a walk-on showing up briefly while other larger players convinced the audience the show must go on.

Wall Street firms were regularly leveraged 30:1...the scale of the bubble to be increased by orders of magnitude - the equivalent of having 50 homes in a fire-prone neighborhood, but with 100 insurance policies on each and a lively market of bets on which will burn down first.  If this were just a sub-prime housing crash, it would have hurt (think dot-com crash), but it wouldn't have brought the global financial system to its knees.  That required Wall Street and AIG, with the ratings agencies helping along the way (by convincing institutional investors that all was safe).

The burning house analogy is the best one I've heard yet.

The analysis of what happened isn't finished (few have yet written about the hidden bank run that annihilated things like mutual funds) and will probably go on for the next decade. But it's clear there's plenty of blame to spread around, but it ain't going to spread like peanut butter. Some deserve some chunks.

Get Me A One Handed Economist

I love Politifact. It's not because they make a valiant attempt to fact check the pretzel logic of politics. It's because they tend to piss everyone off. My motto is if everyone is mad, you must be doing something right.

Republicans are so convinced they are just another arm of the liberal media octopus, websites have already sprung up documenting their alleged complicity in the massive media conspiracy.

Fortunately for the purveyors of "everyone is out to git the Republicans", amnesia is a convenience.

Today, the AJC's Kyle Wingfield praises Politifact for rightfully calling "Pants on Fire" on Nancy Pelosi and her debt chart that is once again, circling the meme-circuit.

Politifact is absolutely correct. Pelosi's chart is a horror of incorrect data based on starting the Obama Presidency in 2010 instead of 2009. To my mind, this says more about Pelosi's utter incompetence than honesty.

Oh, if only Politifact had stopped there Kyle. Because, as is their way,  they proceed to throw a little fire your way as well.


Turn on WSB radio any time after 8:30am and there's a fair chance you'll hear some version of "Obama tripled the deficit How can he blame Bush!".

Well, according to Politifact, although Pelosi's numbers would make a third grader blush, the Republicans catchy numbers don't fare well either..

Most of your conservative brethren tend to ignore that it was Bush's final budget that pushed the deficit over $1 trillion. Not Obama's first.

Or as Politifact demonstrates once it ran the numbers:

Using the corrected figures does mean that, superficially at least, Democrats have a point. The debt did still increase more, on a percentage basis, under Bush than it did under Obama.

But don't fear, Kyle, they do go on to explain how when compared to percentages of GDP and time spent in office, the Democrats arguments gets weak again.

Or as Politifact so eloquently states:

Of course, all this goes to show that statistics can be used -- and misused -- to bolster almost any argument

But that last part is almost certainly due to their liberal bias.

Flavors Of Condescension

Advocacy for a particular political persuasion requires a belief one holds the correct point of view. However, there is a point where belief converts to condescension, arrogance, haughtiness or whatever word you can find in your thesaurus that equates to being a jackass.

In my travels, I have found the two dominant parties prefer different flavors of condescension.

Republican Flavor:

I'm right. You're wrong. Go pound sand.

At this time, there's just too many examples to list.

Democrat Flavor:

If only you were knowledgeable / understanding / worldly, you would change your mind

Latest example. Troy Davis.

Chart Of The Day

Some will dismiss it because of the source (Center for American Progress), but I believe it's difficult to argue with the numbers.

The President is now to the right of Bowles-Simpson.

We are on the brink of fiscal disaster, but it is the President who is creating job stifling "uncertainty" and it is the President who is engaging in "class warfare".

But most importantly, it is all his fault because he steadfastly refuses to put anything on paper.

Will Democrats Ever Get Over Voter ID?

Just came across the social media wire - Democratic Party of Georgia is crowing about a John Lewis speech on voter ID. First from the scribes at the DPG:

This notion is not foreign to the people of Georgia who have struggled against the imposition of voter photo ID laws, unusual use of Social Security checks in the last election by the Georgia Secretary of State, and the convenient malfunctioning of voting machines in certain jurisdictions.

 Lewis in a floor speech quoted in the release:

But make no mistake, Voter ID laws are a poll tax.  People who struggle to pay for basic necessities cannot afford a voter ID.

Only one problem. In Georgia, ID cards are free.

Time to let the hyperbole go and move on.

The Balanced Budget Amendment Is Not Conservative

In my mind, conservative politics rest on two ideological poles - the present is guided by the past and the world should be managed as it is, not as it should be.

In the current financial crisis, the Republican party's favorite zombie legislation has risen again - the balanced budget amendment. It has been lurking since the 80s and like any good monster seems to pop out of the shadows just as things seem the scariest.

But is it a conservative idea? Modern politics would say, yes. Certainly, you could make the argument that the only way to deal with the world as it is would be to control spending and due to the lack of fiscal fortitude in the nation's Capitol, the only sure method is to put it in black and white in the U.S. Constitution.

However, if we take my thesis at the beginning and apply the two poles of conservatism, we arrive at a very different answer.

Practicality first. Does a balanced budget amendment actually deal with the world as it is or does it attempt to mold the world into a vision of what we want.

Steven Taylor of Outside The Beltway dives deep into the idea of a federal balanced budget and concludes it is practically impossible.Everyone wants the federal government to work like a household budget. Although it is a nice analogy and makes an easy talking point, it in no way is reality. Unlike your budget which is based on a paycheck where the amount remains virtually the same and arrives on a regular basis, federal revenue gyrates wildly based on many external factors. The Feds have a general idea of how much money is coming, but no real idea until it actually arrives. And let's not even venture down the rabbit hole of what happens if the ledger doesn't balance at the end of the year (here's a hint, the courts would get involved, what fun!)

That's one pole knocked from the tent. Perhaps it can stand on the remaining support.

Here's a fun way to win a drink in a bar bet. Ask someone how many times the U.S. has been debt free*. If they answer in any way except "exactly once", drink up!

The year was 1835. The nation was led by a man who hated debt and despised the central U.S. Bank. He proceeded to slash the Federal government, sold Federal holdings such as public lands and refused to re-authorize the central bank.

Sound familiar?

It worked. By the end of 1835, President Andrew Jackson managed for the first and only time to completely balance the budget. No debt. None.

Two years later, following financial chaos as state banks issued there own specie and speculation went wild., the country plunged into a depression, the panic of 1837, and federal debt returned but at 10 times the previous level.

The depression was not directly the result of the leveling of the debt but there is little doubt it exacerbated the crisis.

So, the one time we actually balanced the ledger, instead of jubilee, we had disaster. Does this sound like using the past to guide the present?

The U.S. has always had debt (except for those two unfortunate years in the 1830s). We had it under Washington on day one, we had it through Presidents, bad, good or indifferent. We have it under Obama today and I guarantee we'll have it under his successor.

Debt is not a good thing, but it is not a bad thing either. Modern financial systems, from the small business that depends on a line of credit to maintain payroll, up to the massive federal government, depend on debt to function. To remove it would be akin to removing all the oil from an engine. The wiser course would be to manage the level so it neither overfills to spatter everything nor falls to low, causing parts to seize.

Instead of advocating such a course of management and practicality, modern Republicans want to place debt in stark binary terms, then codify that cold equation in the fabric of our greatest law. They desire to do this despite the lessons of history and despite the great unknowns of the future.

This is not conservatism. This is radicalism.



* I understand that you could technically have a balanced budget amendment and still carry debt, however that does not reflect the context of what is promoting the current version of the BBA

How To Create A Feedback Loop

How to create a feedback loop in 4 easy steps:

1. Have one of your contributors repeat a spurious claim by a candidate

2. When an outside entity shows how easy it is to get the other side of the story, have another contributor respond that it's "lame" without ever addressing the original claim.

3. Reprint the original candidates response, only this one isn't "lame", instead it is the "truth".

4. When questioned about the entire episode, have another contributor claim they are just reporting the "news, despite the fact that the entire episode was generated by them.

Welcome to epistemic closure - Georgia style.

UPDATE: And of course the AJC picks up the story. And manages to make the candidate look positive. Welcome to the new world. Ain't it grand?

The Best Of The Drifts - Galloway and Peach Pundit

Originally published on July 23, 2009

Ahem, Mr. Galloway

I'm going to attempt to avoid profanity but it will be difficult.

Blogging is the new journalism, we’re told. And so all bloggers are journalists, right? Not really. ~AJC's Political Insider Jim Galloway

No kidding.

Let's get the karmic band-aid out of the way first. Jim Galloway is one of the finest journalists in this town and if the AJC ever lost him, I doubt they would recover.

Now.

For over three years, there has been a conversation in this town about journalism, blogging, where the two meet and where they don't meet. As far as I know, Jim Galloway has never been a participant. The ignorance of his statement bears witness to this fact.

My only personal interaction with Jim was when I went to the Newt Gingrich love fest at the Galleria. I introduced myself and he complimented my writing which was very nice of him. He then told me I was too late, they'd already talked to the bloggers.

Because you see - a blogger wouldn't attend an event to get a story - one would only attend to be spoon fed whatever was covered in the "blogger meeting".

Let me share something with you, Jim. Blogging is not the new journalism. Journalism does occur on blogs, although getting some of your cohorts to admit this tiny fact is akin to convincing a flat-earther the moon landings really happened.

And lot's of other things occur on blogs. We come in many varieties, cover many topics and we'll even admit we have different levels of quality. You see, we're not this monolithic creature which vomits the same thing over and over. And every time I hear a newspaper person, the supposed guardians of the truth, use this easy fallacy, my respect for your industry slips a little further.

Now, about Erick Erickson.

Jim's ridiculous statement led to an analysis of Erick Erickson's latest ugliness which led to the pearl clutching discovery that not all bloggers are journalists and perhaps the state's largest blog, Peach Pundit, is not a transparent temple of the truth. Get out the fainting couch.

If Jim was going to pick a finer example to portray blogs as non-journalistic, I couldn't think of a better one.

After all, over the years Peach Pundit has:

• Published a front page writer who failed to disclose his connections to campaigns and has published false stories. (By the way, Jim - Peach Pundit is the only Georgia blog I know where he wouldn't be booted on his ass immediately)
• Published anonymous tips without any attempt at confirmation.
• Been a vehicle for Erick's personal witch hunts. Witch hunts disguised as expose' but backed by evidence so thin, The National Enquirer would blanch.
• Witch hunts which skate perilously close to libel.
• And has generally chosen to use the worse characteristics of a political spin machine as its modus operandi.

Peach Pundit isn't a journalistic outfit? Tell us something we don't know.

Peach Pundit is a monument to ego (Jim, you should ask Erick about his rolodex - he's proud to brag it's bigger than John Oxendine's) which loves nothing more than to wallow in the mostly Republican mud but when called out, snouts up its few mealy-mouthed Democrat contributors (one who happens to be the aforementioned false reporting scoundrel) and squeal "Objectivity! Objectivity!"

But they are the cool kids, so of course the establishment runs to them for a good story. After all, they and the establishment slop at the same trough with the same obvious result emerging from the other end. Garbage in, garbage out.

Jim, just because Peach Pundit is the biggest and baddest doesn't mean they're the best. And just because they are the most popular doesn't mean the rest of us want to be just like them.

And you, Jim, are the best in the business at telling us things we don't know. Please, return to that rewarding venue and leave this isle of tropes far behind.

My Morning Wooten

Let us dance one more time. I love it when Jim whines about transportation.

Propose a transportation sales tax increase, as Georgia legislators have done, and the visionaries spending other peoples’ money start planning monuments, and costly ones at that. Cobb County commissioners have given the county’s transportation director authority to try to sell a 14-mile light-rail line, projected to cost at least $2 billion, running from the Galleria to Town Center near Kennesaw. Please. Fix the bottlenecks. Make traffic move. Put the money where it produces the greatest benefit to the most people.

In other words, lay down more pavement on the widest section of the entire interstate system.

The Best Of The Drifts - Confessions Of A Taxman

Originally published March 8, 2009

Confessions of a Taxman

Why does a libertarian become a tax collector? Because even libertarians need a paycheck. How does a libertarian act as a tax collector? With the belief that tax enforcement is not about punishment but correcting mistakes.

In the days when I still referred to myself as a libertarian instead of an independent, for two years I was employed by the Georgia Department of Labor as a Field Representative (officially an Unemployment Insurance Tax Auditor). I did not miss the irony.

One duty was the collection of the Unemployment Insurance tax. Unlike other taxmen with whom you may be familiar, I did not go after individuals - I went after employers. Employers paid the tax quarterly with the amount based on their total payroll. When they became delinquent, a file came to my desk and I devised the best strategy to obtain the money.

To the frustration of my supervisor, I demurred in the use of the most devastating tools in my arsenal. Restraint and diplomacy became my style. Others who had worked the trade for years shook their heads in disbelief.

I have many war stories from these years, some funny, some sad, but the two I always remember were the strip club and the daycare center.

My assigned territory was a mottled blob of strangeness. It stretched from the strip joints and lingerie modeling establishments on Cheshire Bridge through the financial heart of Buckhead all the way to the doctor's offices around Northside Hospital. It was not unusual for a single trip to take me from a liquor store to a stockbroker's office.

Despite what one might think, the adult establishments were hardly a problem. Other than the Gold Club (the Federales got them before I ever got close), for months I never saw a file on the myriad houses of nudity. Then, one appeared. It was a small bill. They only missed one filing but curiousity (and perhaps more puerile interest) drove me to investigate.

There are few things weirder than a strip club at 2:00 in the afternoon on a weekday. The parking lot was full of trucks and sedans. I was entering the world of the landscapers and salesmen - men who forsake the heat of the day for a dark place covered in booze and skin.

A cocktail waitress approached me and asked if I needed anything. A manager I replied. The man in charge appeared quickly and I showed him the bill. He ushered me to his office and relayed a familiar story.

The club had changed accountants and in the confusion the quarterly filing was misssed. I responded, "It happens all the time. I figured it was something like that since you guys are never a problem".

He agreed, opened the big business checkbook and snapped out the full amount.

As he handed me the check, he said, "It'll never happen again."

I replied, "I bet".

Not too far from the strip joint, a young couple opened a daycare center.

They left high paying engineering jobs because they wanted something for themselves and they loved children.

When their file crossed my desk, my supervisor pointed out that it appeared to be classic case of what he called a "mercy killing". He believed some people did not have what it takes to run a business and the best action we could take was to end the misery. He had a point. They were a new business and those always faced the most danger. They were also horribly behind and experience told me the chances of payment were slim.

It was within my power to begin the process which would result in their closure, but I looked at my supervisor and said, "let me go check them out".

The daycare was in an old building next to an even older apartment complex, but it had a fresh coat of bright yellow paint and flower decals on the door. The owners were not much older than me and it was apparent they were over their heads. When they first opened, they knew a lot about kids but not much about running a business. Of course they were aware of the outstanding taxes - they had dutifully filed every quarter, they just didn't pay. The wife told of the dread they both felt about the day the taxman came and now he was here.

We sat and I heard the familiar story of the sacrifices made, the hard lessons learned and the tiny successes. Some tears were shed but their eyes glinted with the belief they had turned the corner and could still realize their dream. But they had no idea how they would deal with this awful piece of paper I was holding in my hand.

I looked around - noted the clean but obviously second hand furnishings, the gaggle of children playing in the next room and the mother arriving to take her daughter home. I then reached into my bag and pulled out a repayment agreement. We discussed how much they could pay without crippling the business, how long it would take and how I would personally come each month to pick up the check. I warned them that my supervisor's approval was required but I believed I could convince him.

The next day, he rolled his eyes and signed the agreement.

Every month, for one year, I stopped by the daycare and picked up a check. On the last day, they met me at the doors with smiles on their faces, check in hand. They demanded I follow them to the office to see the photocopy they made of their final payment.

In two years as a taxman, I only put one business out of operation and filed less than two dozen liens, yet I was in the top three collectors every quarter.

The strip club and the daycare center and countless others taught me there is a reason tax matters are dealt with in a civil rather than a criminal manner. Most people who get into trouble with the taxman do so through carelessness, biting off more than they can chew or just flat out Murphy's Law. It is the rare bird who intentionally tries to get away with being a cheat.

In this season of much thunder about taxes, who pays them, who doesn't and what should be done about it, saying so and so is a bad person and should be punished is an easy story to sell to a cynical public. But as politicians proudly thump their chests and demand a reckoning, we should remember that behind their simplistic descriptions of ne'er-do-wells may be a daycare center or even a strip club or maybe your neighbor or maybe even you.

The bloodlust and call for scalps are seductive, but we all face the taxman eventually and all should hope their own story is seen for what it is and not just a politician's punchline.

The Best Of The Drifts - On Moderates

Originally Published November 10, 2008

An Appeal To Moderates

Moderates, by their very nature, avoid conflict.

For this reason, they spent the last 20 years operating in the shadows, sacrificing principle for the comfort of power as the radicals stomped across the landscape. They said all the right words and attended the appropriate services at the chapels of venom.

In 2000, when their standard bearer, John McCain was publicly flogged by the so called righteous, they said little.

For 8 years, they stood aside as their bloody brethren ripped at the Constitution - wetting their talons with torture and imprisonment.

In 2008, finally some ventured to speak against yet another disastrous choice and were met by a mob carrying stakes and kindling.

The witch fires have illuminated the shadows. There can be no more standing to the side as the looming beast now feeds on its own.

***

The beast is a chimera of many parts and it is on these parts which you must strike.

Sarah Palin - Fortune made her the face of the radicalism. She is not, as some say, unintelligent. Her weight on the campaign was not a lack of intellect but a lack of intellectual curiousity. It is not that she doesn't know the participants in the North American Free Trade Agreement - it is that she doesn't seem to care. She embraces the spirit of know nothingness which now grips your party. This standard bearer must be banished or you will wander in the wilderness for generations.

Abortion - You have lost your voice because those under 30 no longer hear you. They consider this most divisive issue settled and wish to move forward. If due to personal belief you must remain with this issue, you must concede reasonable exceptions. To do otherwise will guarantee those you need most will simply pass you by.

Talk Radio - Recently the voice of the beast was asked if there is room in the Republican party for moderates - Rush Limbaugh responded "We want their votes but they'll never be one of us". A brighter line was never set. If Democrats are the enemy to be fed upon, moderate Republicans are merely the ground the beast walks across. Limbaugh, Hannity, Coulter, Malkin and all those who cry for blood must be rejected. You must stop appearing on their shows. You must stop parroting their insanity. The last two elections have shown the market is rejecting their brand of rabble rousing. Assist the market in hastening their demise.

The Despair of KnowNothingness - Reason must prevail over the heart of the beast. If someone asks you if you believe in evolution, you must say yes, but you leave these issues to science and it does not bear on faith. If someone asks you if you believe in global warming, you must say yes, but add the task will be difficult and we must seek solutions that better us all. You must discount the brand of dishonesty which claims to hold the one true knowledge at the expense of those whose life work is the quest for knowledge.

***

Now, it is on this ground where you must fight - for it is good ground.

Gun Rights - Heller rightly established the Second Amendment as an individual right and not a collective one. You will find allies across the ideological landscape who are gun owners and believe that owning guns is not a sin. But do not seek them in the halls of the N.R.A. Seek them in the hunting camps of Georgia, the small businesses in D.C. and the indoor target ranges of L.A.

Property Rights - If Heller was absolutely right, Kelo was absolutely wrong. The mere idea that the government can swoop in and take a person's property without a fare-thee-well is more abhorrent than any of the issues the radicals put forth as critical. Forget promising platitudes of nominating judges who rule on "strict construction". Promise judges who understand that as with guns, property is a right of the individual and not the collective.

Business - If you must be the party of business then do so. There are plenty of people who understand the economy doesn't work without big business. But also be the party of small business. It may be the Wal-Marts which make our nation a partner in the global economy, but it is the mom and pop restaurants which make every small town in this country a partner in the whole's greater success. Support small business loans. Support microloans. Offer support to all rungs of the ladder and those who you need most will help raise that ladder to new heights.

Spending - Yes, we must talk about taxes but for the love of all that is good, let us talk about spending first. When John McCain talked as a spending hawk, CNN's fancy dial-a-vote devices went through the roof. When he wandered back into the land of the beast, they fell through the floor. The people want smaller government. They want more local control. They will understand the hard choices to be made. Instead of promising a tax chicken in ever pot, promise we won't have to sell Oregon to pay off the Chinese. It is for their children and their children's children. Every parent understands sacrifice to make the next generation's world better. Talk to your constituents like the adults they are and they will listen.

***

Not that long ago, I had a conversation with Republican State Senator David Shafer. We met in a not unusual way. He disagreed with something I wrote on embryonic stem cells. Sen. Shafer and I agree on nothing about right to life issues. However, once we set aside that deadly conflict, a conversation emerged on the future of Grady Hospital. I learned more about the issues of local health care in this half hour conversation than any number of position papers, activist marches and stormings of the Grady board meetings ever taught me.

All it took was momentarily setting aside the differences in order to discuss areas where we agreed. It was in that country, not yet touched by the beast, where we not only found common ground but solutions.

It is in these refuges of reason where the battle can be won. But first you must be willing to make your stand. The time for the stalwart has come. The engagement is at hand and the decision must be made - do you fight for this good ground?

The Best Of The Drifts - Family And Race

Originally published March 19, 2008

The In Between

We finally reached a truce.

Following myriad pleas, cajoles and threats, my family finally agreed to not use certain epithets in my presence. After long arguments and subtle persuasions, both sides realized the gulf of understanding was too deep to bridge and instead chose that very southern solution - polite silence.

My mother would occasionally slip and seeing me nearby would apologize. It was one of those stomach flipping moments where all realized the child now led the way and the parent would forever follow.

My brothers and sisters continued to follow the truce until our mother left us. With her passing, we were placed in the position of the top rung of the family. Families, like the packs of predators which are their heritage, require leaders and perhaps it was that struggle for supremacy which led my siblings back to the hidden truth - they desired to again casually use certain words in my presence.

At first there were gentle corrections then as things turned ugly not-so gentle accusations. Soon, as four people splintered, sides were taken and I was inexorably pulled towards the brother who was most like myself - except he was 13 years older, a product of the turbulent sixties with its bussing and violence and although no one would ever say it was dominant in his life, bigoted.

He used certain explosive words as thoughtlessly as a man might use the word Coca-cola to describe what he was drinking. He flatly stated if his daughters brought home a black man, he would remove them from his life. When told that Barack Obama may win the Presidency, he rolled his eyes and muttered, "what is the world coming to?"

The polite silence was irrevocably shattered when one of my nieces finally crossed that ultimate line of race. For the dating habits of a 19-year old girl, I was sent flying on a 400 mile trip to attempt to heal a broken family.

After many tears, the family did not heal completely but remained together. They reached their own uneasy truce. The father would not interfere but the daughter would not "put it in his face". My brother frankly told me that he knew we were different and there were things I took as the way of the world which he could never accept.

We as a society have moved so far in this particular struggle but it is close by where we struggle so hard. I could no more remove my brother from my life than I could cut off my right hand because it offends. But events of this week have shown that we must all work harder. We must be willing to tell those we hold most dear, "brother, I love you but when I'm around there are things you can't do".

And change will come. Perhaps all the ones we love will not change but with each passing of that love change will be inevitable.

Many months after the "boyfriend incident" as my brother sat rolling his eyes at the possibility of a black man being President, my niece standing just behind her father sotto voce told me, "I think he'll be a good President".

The Best Of The Drifts - Politics and Gambling

Originally published October 31, 2007

Water From A Stone

The mouth of the righteous is a fountain of life, but violence overwhelms the mouth of the wicked. ~Proverbs 10:11

28, 26, 25, 24.

These are numbers that have haunted me for the past day. Normally, the only numbers I count are the ones I discuss with my favorite degenerate gambler friend on Thursday night as we wait, like two dogs slobbering over a bone, for the kickoff of the first college game. Do you take the over on the game and sweat through the first quarter when both offenses look like feeble junior varsity teams, do you dare call at half time to take the teaser second half line or do you just throw all you money at the nearest stumbling drunk and scream at him to call out random keno numbers?

At least football makes some sense. Unlike politics.

Politics is a loser. It will suck you in, drag you along and then crush you like the strange twisted ways of an 8th grade bra clasp. The man who tells you he knows the ways of politics is the worst kind of charlatan. He should not only be ridden out on of town on a rail but also should be shaved bare and left naked at the edge of a bee farm.

But bets have to be made and numbers have to be called. And only those who cannot resist the tug are awake when decent people are asleep, mumbling incoherently about the spread that they should have seen and the junk of the hard facts intruding on the voodoo behind their picks.

The worst bastard in the world is the one who crows at the bar about how he called the sure lock of the century while poor hopheads who spent their last rent check on some horrible deceit like South Florida start chewing at the brass bar fittings.

Politics. God help us all. At least the bookies win on the games. Hell, nobody wins at this awful thing that is politics. We chew around the edges hoping to nibble off just enough to sustain the vig.

The only safe bet is football. At least on those treacherous fields, the only ones who get hurt are the next generation. Lord knows, you read the bones wrong on this thing called politics and we might all be awash in gap-toothed carnies until the wheel circles again and bathes us all in the fires of Megiddo.

The Best Of The Drifts - More Genarlow Wilson and Eric Johnson

Originally published October 28,2007

Shame

It would be easy to say ignorance abounds, but that would be laying the light switch on the peckerwoods when they deserve the full strop.

Shall we begin with Senate President Pro Tem Eric Johnson?

He, who when responding to a CNN inquiry regarding Genarlow Wilson's acquittal on a particular charge, responded "it was rape in my mind".

When legislation was presented to take fair, unanimous correction of a heinously unjust law back through the throes of time to include the very soul who inspired such urgency for reformation, how did Senator Johnson respond?

With a tut-tut, he queried, how could the legistature in good conscience rewrite law to undo the good faith process of the judiciary? Had not the judiciary spoken in the matter of Genarlow Wilson?

Senator Johnson repeatedly asked us, the good people of Georgia, to trust the judicial process, for it was that holy institution which had convicted Genarlow Wilson and who were we, the people and the representatives of the people, to second guess the will of the Wilson jury in their wisdom?

But apparently the will of the judicial system only matters when it is convenient.

Following yesterday's ruling by the Supreme Court of the State of Georgia that Wilson's sentence constituted "cruel and unusual punishment", Senator Johnson issued the following statement.

By a single vote, the Supreme Court has opened the door for the release of hundreds of sexual predators. But equally disturbing is the fact that this activist court is once again clearly defying legislative intent. This case has never really been about Genarlow Wilson. It has been about the rule of law. The General Assembly did change the law related to minors having oral sex, but it expressly declined to make this law retroactive to those sentenced under previous laws. By ignoring this part of the legislature's wishes, this court has deliberately chosen to disregard the General Assembly's Constitutional authority. This is troubling to me and it should be to all Georgians.

What should be troubling to all Georgians is the the second most powerful man in the Senate implored us to ignore the sentence of a jury because we should trust what is "rape in his mind", then told us we should not change the law because we should trust the decision of the jury but when mule finally comes home to kick now tells us we shouldn't trust "activist judges" who seek to rewrite the "good" law so heavily weighed by our trustworthy legislators.

It is so terribly hard to keep count on who we should trust.

But here is an easy score to mark. When the Genarlow Wilson decision came down, on that clear day of justice and rectitude, certain leaders in the Republican Party and their personal harpies in the media chose not quiet restraint but instead opted for fakery and obfuscation.

The Atlanta Machine

The Atlantic's Marc Ambinder performs an absolute take down of Newt Gingrich's recent intellectually dishonest rhetoric about "machine politics" - he glibly asks why no one ever referred to Newt's use of the same parliamentary maneuvers as the "Atlanta Machine".

Money quote.

Interlude: which party introduced and passed an extremely complicated, extremely expensive Medicare prescription drug bill in the dead of night -- via a process that lasted three hours? Not the Democrats.

For those concerned about the Republican party driving off the cliff, the whole article is a must read.

The Best Of The Drifts - The Baseball Series

Originally published May 8, 2007

Innocence Lost, Part III

Willie Harris and the immortal Jackie Robinson were both born in the same small town of Cairo, Ga. At the moment, Willie also has another commonality with Jackie. As Jackie was when he crossed the color barrier in 1947, Willie is the only African American player on his team, the Atlanta Braves.

Times are different but the similarity of the surface situations cause many to ask why.

Gone are the golden years of Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Frank Robinson and Bob Gibson. Following the pioneering times of Don Newcombe, Lou Campinella, Larry Doby and of course Jackie Robinson, African Americans not only excelled in baseball, they dominated. The success caused many to wonder the what ifs of Satchel Paige, Cool Papa Bell and Josh Gibson.

Then something happened. A mere 60 years after Jackie sacrificed for an entire people, they began leaving the game he loved so much.

Bethune-Cookman, a historically black college in Daytona Beach, Fla., has only two African American baseball players. The rest are hispanic or white. On a recent HBO Sports documentary, the head coach discussed attending summer camps and struggling to find African Americans to recruit. It is a struggle echoed by all baseball programs at HBCs.

Hall of Fame player Dave Winfield believes he has found the problem. He calls it the 3 Cs. Cost, continuity and competition.

"It didn't cost anything to play," he says. "Whether it was Little League or park and rec ball, you could play until you were drafted without having to pay. Now you might be able to play through Little League, but if you want to get better, you start paying to play. Then the continuity of being able to play for nothing every year stopped. The connection and the continuity of playing all the time and the ability to reach new heights stopped. And now the external competition has risen where 40 years ago you didn't have as many other sports competing. They thought the Super Bowl would fail and look at it now. How about basketball, soccer, extreme sports? Everybody has grabbed a piece of the sports and entertainment pie now."

In the 60's and 70's, baseball was the glamour sport for black America. Basketball was riddled with drugs and hardly ever shown on television. Football was the purview of white America, the lines so divisive a player in the following decade would describe it as a "plantation system". But in baseball, giant men named Mays, Aaron, Morgan and Flood walked the earth.

Then, basketball cleaned up its drug problem and found a man named Magic. Football cut loose its fetters, opening riches and the most coveted position of power, the quarterback, to men named Moon, Cunningham and Williams. Money and fame came quick and easy. In the age of MTV and video games, instant gratification ruled. Why slog through years in the minor leagues when you could sign for millions of dollars on draft day?

In the cities and even the small towns, the patches of dirt became abandoned. Young men moved to the asphalt courts where you only needed a leather ball and the ability to impress. A travelling team meant crossing over to the next series of courts to play in a different summer rec league.

But not all agree with this perspective.

Joe Beasley, Southern Regional Director of the Rainbow/PUSH coalition, believes there is no "diminished enthusiasm for African-Americans playing baseball". To him and his organization, the problem is major league organizations do not recruit enough African Americans. A statement that flies in the face of the fact that a Major League team does not recruit anybody. They sign players from lower levels. Lower levels like Bethune-Cookman where even though its student popluation is 90% African American, its baseball team is less than 10% African American.

When I first began this piece, I was angry. The passionate line of attacking my team for no apparent reason had been crossed. I also had witnessed the demagoguery of Jesse Jackson's organization in the past. I again began to wonder if these gulfs could ever be spanned when we continue to drive ourselves apart with meaningless passion plays as the things in life for which we truly care die.

Then, I remembered Travis and Dexter. How they both shaped a young boy from south Georgia and showed him that even in the awful hurts of our differences there was still hope. Their memories reminded me that hope does not come from a blind corporate behemoth of a major league franchise. Nor does it come from the demagogues clinging to relevance by latching on to high profile targets. Hope always comes from the smallest changes. The ones rarely noticed.

Hope will come from a baseball field. When, a child turns a double play. It will come from a classroom. When a child who has never had the opportunity to visit a museum opens an art book for the first time. Hope will come when we remember what we learned as children. Despite our difficulties and differences, innocence does not have to be lost.

The Best Of The Drifts - The Baseball Series

Originally Publlished May 8, 2007

Innocence Lost, Part II

Baseball has been part of my life since I can remember. It was in third grade, some time after Travis and I finally finished that map of London when baseball became serious.

The small dirt patch behind the elementary school was our field, as poor as it was. We had a pillow for one base and a chunk of concrete for another. Sliding into second was a trepidous affair for fear of mother later looking at torn jeans or heads being cracked open if you were brave enough to go head first in the style of Pete Rose.

We had progressed from merely a wild herd of children running like mobs towards any ball to an organized gang who picked sides much to the chagrin of those always picked last. It is where I heard my first profanity uttered by a friend. A quick, "hot damn" when I accidentally slung my bat into the catcher's face. It was where I first felt that the strangeness of girls was not so strange after all.

She was the preachers kid, full of straight black hair and a tiny mole on her cheek. She came to watch the games with her small friends because they too were figuring out that boys were not so strange after all. One day, she caught a line drive off her forearm. Screams burst forth and of course we did what boys do in moments of panic involving girls - stood stock still. Fortunately for everyone, a nearby teacher came over and ushered her back to the school building. As she walked in the door, bravely choking back tears and clutching her arm, I muttered, "there goes my girl". Nearby, another boy overheard and the taunts began, leaving my mind reeling with the questions of what had I done and what would happen when she inevitably heard what I said?

A few days later, we were back on the patch of dirt playing baseball and shockingly the girls came back as well. The preachers daughter was there, now with a cast on her arm. And just once, she favored me with a smile.

On the field, baseball and I soon parted ways. Natural ability is a harsh evolutionary governor. But it never strayed far from my mind.

Lack of ability on the field morphed into passion of the mind and the mind's easy focus was the Atlanta Braves. Those miserable Braves of the late 70's. It didn't matter to me how horrible they were on the field; the roster was filled with such exotic names as Lum, Pocoroba and Naharodny. They also had a lanky Mormon kid at catcher with a tendency to throw the ball into center field. I had cousins who were Mormons and I had a tendency to throw ball wildly, so at ten years old, I figured I could relate.

A frequent debate in sports circle is which is your favorite sport. Baseball or Football? I once described the difference as marriage versus a one night stand. Football is hot, sweaty, full of action. It happens once a week for a few hours and you leave sated. Baseball goes on for nine months, day after day, only changing incrementally, and at the end, you just hope for a little extra love in the playoffs. But there is always the comfort of knowing spring training is just a few months away.

Not that there isn't passion in baseball. Much like marriage, it is passionate but most times it is a slow burn. Ask any Cubs, Red Sox, Yankees or Dodgers fan about their team and you will receive a mixture of grief, fondness, madness and frivolity. Sometimes anger, if you cross a line.

Ask me and you will hear tales of wonder at Phil Niekro signing a baseball, Dale Murphy hitting another homer, Dale Murphy striking out on another slider, the brief glory of the early eighties and the sustained ecstasy of the 90s.

Ask a young friend of mine about his team and he will imitate Chipper Jones swing, note that John Smoltz is pitching this week and Kelly Johnson is making us all forget the beloved Marcus Giles.

He will also tell you about Willie Harris.

Concluded tomorrow.

The Best Of The Drifts - The Baseball Series

Originally published May 8, 2007

Innocence Lost, Part I

Joe Beasley, Southern Regional Director Rainbow/PUSH Coalition:

I think it was a lack of diligence on the part of the Braves to recruit African-American players. There's not diminished enthusiasm for African-Americans playing baseball. It's simply the opportunity hasn't presented itself.

griftdrift in May 2006:

Bill Clinton didn't lose Jesse Jackson. He was lost every time someone witnessed his vampiric tendency to show up at a tragedy. He was lost every time someone witnessed his need to place pride before principle. For me, he was lost one hot day in Albany, Ga.

Being birthed and raised in a small town in the deepest part of a southern state, the question of race was always unavoidable.

I was born in an era when blacks still lived on their side of town. Where busing caused panic in white families. Where a sister would sob through the night from fear of going to the new black high school. Fear that she would be raped by the black boys or beat up by the black girls.

Up until the first grade, my only interaction with black people were the handy man who came around to help fix a fence or a maid when visiting a wealthier friend's house. Then I met Travis.

Travis was my first black friend. I was the next generation of desegregation - entering first grade a full decade following the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Attitudes had changed little but the gulf of racial understanding had begun to be spanned by the smallest of hands.

We both liked to draw. Every second grader likes to draw but it filled Travis and myself with a passion. While studying London of all things, Travis and I were chosen to draw a map of the city on a huge piece of butcher paper stretched taut across the whole bulletin board. We threw ourselves at the project as only small boys do. We worked every free moment, forgetting recess, baseball, bugs and all the other passions of 7-year old males.

In between staring at pictures in our textbook and gripping our "magic markers", Travis and I talked. We talked about our homes and what we liked to eat. He liked grits and I, already feeling the seeds of rebellion, did not. My mother worked for the government and his worked at a restaurant. I was raised on a farm and he was raised in "the quarters". He was bussed clear across town to attend a "white school". I was a 5 minute ride away from pastures filled with cows.

The moment a child considers asking permission to have a friend over for the night is a momentous one. It is the first tentative step in forming one's own community away from the family unit. Of course, I didn't realize this at the time - I simply wanted to ask Travis to come over and spend the night.

Then, I began to think odd thoughts. I looked at Travis with his mid-70s fro and considered my own bowl cut. My new clothes and his hand me downs. I considered my split level house in the country and what I knew was a' shotgun shack in the poorest section of town. I gripped my magic marker and silently went back to drawing. The gulf was still there. The differences were far too great for a child to cross.

I lost track of Travis, but I think of him now as I remember another young man I met many years later.

In summers of the past, small towns meant baseball. For a 16-year old boy on summer vacation it also meant a summer job.

I was lucky. I didn't have to work 'baccer or some other hideously gruesome job. I worked for the city recreation department. In the morning, I assisted with the 6-8 year olds in day camp. They played kickball, tag and red rover while I generally stood around making sure they didn't kill themselves. In the evening, I umpired farm league baseball.

Farm league was for the kids 8-10 years old who were not yet ready for the rigors of true little league. I had been a farm leaguer myself, usually positioned in right field at the end of a game, silently praying a fly ball wasn't hit my way. It was fairly obvious most boys didn't have the talent to progress beyond this level. A caught fly ball was a miracle. A pitcher who didn't walk the bases loaded was coveted. A catcher who could throw the ball on the fly to second was an MVP.

Every now and then, as I stood between the pitcher's mound and second, dodging another errant throw by a spaghetti armed catcher, I would spot a particular kid. One that I knew would make the progression to little league, then pony league and maybe beyond.

I spotted him early in one summer. He was shy, never smiled and wouldn't look you in the eye. But even at eight, he had the look of a baseball player - the confident lope of athleticism which set him apart from the other gangly messes of stumbling arms and legs. He could throw. He could catch. And lordy, could the child hit. The coach wisely placed him at shortstop in the vain hope the team might get some occasional outs at second and a few fly balls drifting into short center. His name was Dexter.

It happened off the bat of some monstrous catcher. One of those children whose glands ran wild, causing a minor panic among the local uniform supplier. With a man on first, the baby giant smacked a grounder hard past me. I swiveled expecting the ball to scoot into center field but understanding I needed to make sure the runner tagged second. Then, Dexter did something wonderful.

He scooped the ball in his oversized glove, ran to second, tagged the base and gunned it to first. The second minor miracle occurred when the tiny first baseman held onto the ball. Everything was silence. All was frozen, including myself. Mouth open, I slowly pointed at second and raised my fist then turned to first, pointed my finger and raised my fist. The crowd erupted. For many, it was probably the first true double play they had ever seen on this particular field.

Dexter trotted past me on his way to the dugout.

"Nice turn, Dexter", I said.

"Thanks", he replied, then turned to me, looked me in the eye and smiled.

I graduated a few years later. A decade later so did Dexter. I heard he received a baseball scholarship to Clemson and then toiled in the minor leagues. After that, as with Travis, I lost track of him. But I will never forget one evening as the sun set, a double play and the innocent smile of a child.

Part II will appear tomorrow.

The Best Of The Drifts - Elizabeth Edwards and Cancer

Originally published March 23, 2007

It's one of those of driving off a cliff moments. It's a statement you never expect so you never plan. Birth, marriage and even death carry stock responses stored in the brain for years in expectation they will one day be used. But even the most careful planner spends no time pondering what to say when a loved one tells you they have cancer.

It can come in the morning. It can come in the middle of the day. It can come at night. With no doubt, it will come when you are performing some mundane task which will suddenly have no significance. It can even come as you search for a particular restaurant that will satisfy a sudden craving for a particular type of pizza. Suddenly, the phone rings and you are hit with the most unexpected of utterances. Do you say good luck? Do you ask what you can do? Do you tamp down the sudden dread in order to say everything will be okay? If you are driving, do you pull to the side of the road? Do you stay strong because the person needs the support or do you simply begin to sob? As the surface areas of the brain struggle for the appropriate reaction, deep within, the internal voice whispers that no matter what you say, life has changed irrevocably.

Thoughts of a certain need for a specific type of pizza are immediately deleted from the queue and the most basic portions of the lizard brain sieze control of the body forcing it to attend to the need for sustenanace and nothing more. You find yourself robotically pulling into a drive through to order a pre-packaged meal of questionable value but infinite ease. The body knows food is a necessity but at this particular moment no longer a luxury to enjoy. It may have the taste of the cardboard of its packaging but it moves the body forward while the brain catches up.

Eventually, most people come around to one universal response. I'll be there as soon as I can.

Despite the cameras, the press gaggle, the harsh lights, the sputteringly inconsistent microphones, despite the differences in station of life, I was there with John and Elizabeth Edwards yesterday as they announced her cancer has returned. It is not hard for me to imagine the previous 24 hours. People often morbidly joke about the stages of grief but few understand cancer is the grief that arrives too early. There is despair. There is hope. There is the clinical analysis. There is the need to know exactly what is happening. There is the need to know exactly what is going to happen. Each on their own find the small corner of mind containing the mechanism of self-defense that allows the life to go on even when life seems impossible.

In the end all find hope. Even if it is the smallest whisper, we all put on the "brave face" and move forward. We face our family. We face our friends. In the case of public figures, we face the unwavering stare of the press.

I do not pray, but I do believe all souls are connected in ways we may never understand. Time and space hold no bounds to the power of human need.

I was not in Chapel Hill yesterday, but I was with John and Elizabeth Edwards.