I’m baffled by liberals who don’t actually support Obamacare themselves—they want single-payer—but are furious at Republicans for voting against it. (Several comments here illustrate the phenomenon.) Let’s consider the logic. A great many Republicans actually do oppose Obamacare for bona fide reasons. Others are indifferent, and some might opposite it only on partisan grounds while liking the law in principle. Which of these groups of Republicans do liberals think would have had reason to vote for the law?
Those who secretly liked the law were going to see it passed anyway by a Democratic majority—they got the policy they wanted without having to risk blowback in a Republican primary. You’d have to be extremely idealistic to believe that taking a serious political risk to make no policy difference is a prudent move. Indifferent Republicans faced an even starker calculus: risk your career for a policy you don’t care about at all or that you think has as much chance of turning out badly as well. Finally, Republicans who did oppose PPACA out of principle surely can’t be expected to have a reason to vote for the law anyway absent something to change the equation.
This was the ex ante logic, and it proved to be correct: any Republican who had voted for Obamacare would have faced the wrath of the Tea Party, and if he had survived past 2010, he would still have to survive a 2014 midterm in which even Democrats risk losing their seats over their association with the law and its disastrous implementation.
Liberals are so politically inert that I don’t waste much time criticizing them. The Democratic Party, to the extent that it’s liberal, wins nationally because the GOP is a basket case. The hard left, which knows that Democrats are about as neoliberal as the GOP, lives in a nonsense world in which puppet-wielding protesters shape policy, or would if only they built more and bigger puppets. I know some very well meaning, otherwise intelligent antiwar leftists who are nonetheless the most politically infantile people you will ever meet. Politics is just magic to them. (Some of this comes of drawing the wrong lessons from Alinsky and Gramsci—wrong lessons the activist right is now busy committing to memory.)
What drives liberals’ political inanity is the same thing that accounts for why the Tea Party can’t govern: just as the grassroots right is against a lot of things but doesn’t feel much urgency about figuring out what it’s realistically for, liberals go hot with rage over Republican bad behavior and stop there, indulging in outrage rather than thinking about how to change the GOP’s incentives.
The Obamacare saga is the clearest example of the left’s failure to think politically. Lefties defend a law that they don’t even like, and which cost the Democratic Party enormously in 2010 and looks set to do so again in 2014. This would be like conservatives defending Medicare Part D if it had caused Republicans to lose the House in 2004. To their credit, most right-wingers, even the hawks, have the good sense not to attack anyone today for failing to support the Iraq War in 2003.
The only way to get a party or a politician to act against its interest or its principles is to change what those interests or principles are through powerful incentives. Offer X in return for Y, and if X is a higher priority for the other party than not-Y, you will get your way. Such negotiation isn’t always easy or even possible—the alignment of interests (including self-preservation) and principle involved in Republican opposition to Obamacare may have been insurmountable. At that point, a politician or party has a choice: press ahead with the policy knowing that you will bear 100 percent of the blame if things go wrong, or put your wager on something else and bide your time on this issue until the other side is more tractable. Obama, Reid, and Pelosi made their choice—fair enough—and they’re living with the consequences. The Republicans did the only thing that made sense in their position; and now they might reap a reward.
Liberals can comfort themselves in one respect, however: the Republicans have blown opportunities as good as this many times before. That’s why Harry Reid is still majority leader.
Libertarian legal scholar Randy Barnett spots the corner into which “judicial conservatives” have painted themselves on contraception, whose nationwide legality is vouchsafed by a Supreme Court decision notoriously at variance with the right’s judicial philosophy:
judicial conservatives… believe that the Court in Griswold was wrong to protect a right to use contraceptives. … And the smarter and better trained they are as judicial conservatives, the more they are trapped by the accusation that state legislatures could ban contraceptives if they want, which then leads to the next questions [which] is whether they think state legislatures ought to ban contraceptives. How they answer this question can then get themselves in trouble with parts of their socially conservative base.
In short, this is a morass for those conservative Republicans who have embraced judicial conservatism, and who are smart enough and well schooled enough to understand where the logic of their position truly leads.
Barnett’s solution is to propose “a constitutional conservatism that seeks to enforce the whole Constitution, including the parts that judicial conservatives are at pains to explain away, like the Ninth Amendment and the Privileges or Immunities Clause of the Fourteenth.” In Barnett’s view, this would require a strong rationale for any restriction on individual liberty by any level of government. Presumably one could come up with reasons why abortion or various hard drugs should be banned but contraception should not. Barnett doesn’t tackle these questions in his post, and he may not be sympathetic to the antiabortion and pro-drug-war elements of the right, but in theory what he proposes need not preclude their goals. That’s especially important where abortion is concerned since Griswold set the stage for Roe. Read More…
One of the few foreign journalists operating from rebel-controlled Syria, Francesca Borri, paints a picture every bit as grim as you could imagine: “nobody is fighting the regime any more; rebels now fight against each other. And for many of them, the priority is not ousting Bashar al-Assad’s regime, but enforcing sharia law.”
She’s not apologizing for Assad—“both the rebels and the regime hunt us,” she says of her fellow journalists—but she’s calling attention to the whitewashing perpetrated by the likes of Elizabeth O’Bagy and Syrian activists. (“They are the famous citizen journalists, glorified by those who probably would never trust a citizen dentist.”) Be sure to read the whole piece.
It’s not Voigt-Kampff, so it may not tell you if you’re a replicant, but this quiz at the New York Times site is a pretty interesting test of one’s ability to read others’ emotions from eyes alone. I scored 30 and found it much easier to judge the women’s expressions than the men’s. Quicker, too: I could quickly discern what a woman’s emotion was meant to be, but it takes a few seconds to figure out what variation on “peevish ape” a man’s might be.
If you’re looking for lessons from last Tuesday’s Virginia election results, don’t just look to Ken Cuccinelli’s gubernatorial defeat—for which any one or combination of a dozen factors can be blamed—look as well at how the Republican candidates performed in the other two statewide races. E.W. Jackson, a fiery cultural rightist who makes Ken Cuccinelli sound like Wendy Davis, lost by 10.5 points in the lieutenant governor’s race. Mark Obenshain, who is about on par with Cuccinelli and Bob McDonnell on social issues, is up by a hair and probably heading for a recount in a 50-50 draw to become the next attorney general. What can we learn?
First, style matters. Three Republicans with roughly similar views on social policy performed very differently: the most flamboyant, Jackson, was crushed; the quietest, Obenshain, did best; and Cuccinelli, in the middle, fell short against Terry McAuliffe.
Cuccinelli’s supporters complain that he was defamed by McAuliffe’s “war on women” advertising, and Tim Carney, among others, has argued that Cuccinelli was in fact active behind the scenes in opposing the Republican legislature’s transvaginal ultrasound mandate for women seeking abortions. The trouble is that whatever the nuances of Cuccinelli’s antiabortion views, the image he’d cultivated as Christian conservatism’s champion—the very thing that earned him such ardent loyalty on the right—contributed to impressions that what McAuliffe said about his views must be true. Cuccinelli tried to send one signal to his base (I’m with you 100 percent—whatever that might mean) and another to the general voter (I’m not an extremist). That set up an uncertainty that McAuliffe could exploit, and did. Read More…
Last month Future 500 invited me to participate on a panel about the future of conservatism. You can watch the whole thing—featuring Future 500′s Bill Shireman and syndicated columnist Charles Hurt, along with yours truly and moderator Stephen Jordan—here. But as a teaser, these are my remarks, ably edited into an 18-minute clip:
Also worth watching is the subsequent panel, which illustrates some of the gender and generation gaps on the right, with panelists including Norm Singleton from Campaign for Liberty, Steve Bannon or Breitbart.com, Lori Sanders of R Street, and Brittney Morrett or the Libre Initiative:
The ignominious end of the shutdown/debt-ceiling standoff has some pundits wondering whether any of the GOP’s star senators—Ted Cruz, Rand Paul, Marco Rubio—could be a viable presidential nominee. With Republicans on Capitol Hill vastly unpopular with the nation at large, is this an opening for a governor in 2016?
Chris Christie and Jeb Bush are the obvious possibilities, with obvious problems. Bush is a familiar name—perhaps too familiar. Christie may have trouble with the right. (Although he’s not inherently any less ideologically plausible a nominee than, say, Mitt Romney.) But every four or eight years, pundits’ imaginations get fired by dark horses: last year, Tim Pawlenty and Mitch Daniels had their moments of vogue. In the middle of the George W. Bush years, National Review improbably pinned its hopes on Colorado Gov. Bill Owens as his successor. (Even more improbably, the magazine had a crush on Dan Lungren, then attorney general of California, back in 1996.)
There’s a reason these fantasies never play out: Republican voters not only have a strong preference for familiar names, they also like nationally proven brands.
In the six decades from Eisenhower’s nomination in 1952 to Romney’s in 2012, the GOP unfailing nominated someone who had either run before, already held national office, or had celebrity cachet. Ike was a war hero. Nixon was VP when he first won the nomination. Ford was already president the only time he won it. Goldwater had made his name in 1960 before he became the nominee in 1964. Reagan was not only a governor, he was also a movie star and had run in 1976 before he won the nomination in 1980. Bush I was VP. Dole had been on a national ticket as Ford’s running mate in 1976, ran for president in 1988, and had just stepped down as Senate majority leader in 1996 when he accepted the nomination. Bush II was a first-time candidate for the White House in 2000, but of course his name was identical with that of the last Republican president. McCain had run once before and was perhaps the most prominent person in the Senate when he won the nomination in 2008. Romney ran in 2008 before winning the nomination in 2012.
The absence of dark horses is no accident: Republican voters like familiarity, which connotes to them national appeal, ideological predictability, and readiness for the job. No surprises, no risks—or at least, the risks ought to be known in advance, even if that means nominating a leader obviously past his prime.
In 2016, the party will most likely hew to the pattern of the past 60 years and nominate someone with a degree of national prominence who is comfortably familiar to Republican voters. Jeb Bush’s whole campaign-in-waiting is based on that idea. If he wasn’t named Bush, he’d be Tim Pawlenty.
Not all of the presumed contenders—Rubio, Cruz, Paul, Christie, Bush, and what the heck, Rick Perry—fit the bill equally well, of course, and it’s not necessarily the case that the one that fits it best will be the nominee. But the profile is suggestive. Is Rubio, for example, really well enough known nationally? Perry imploded in 2012, but he’s at least familiar to Republican voters nationwide now, and perhaps that’s more important than his debate performances. (He’d better hope so.) Paul and Bush fit the profile most closely: neither has run for president before, but both are brands familiar to Republican primary voters from their relatives’ runs. Cruz and Christie are plenty prominent, but the GOP has shown a remarkable tendency to go with whoever is next in line.
Too much of movement conservatism amounts to an inverted leftism. If the left is caricatured as pacifistic, the movement right doubles down on militarism. If the left is caricatured as socialistic, the movement right doubles down on free-market ideology, which turns out only to disguise corporatism. (Laissez-faire libertarians have as many grounds for complaint here as prudential conservatives do.) Sound policy is not merely the opposite of whatever the left happens to favor.
Quite often right-wing reactions to the left start out as common-sense responses to ideological overreach by progressives. But those common-sense responses then get abstracted and expanded into pseudo-principles or polarized attitudes. Thus, while there certainly were America-haters in the Vietnam-era antiwar movement, the idea that antiwar sentiment in general is anti-American is an ideological exaggeration, one that had tremendous political potency until a Republican president’s war in Iraq caused an overwhelming realignment of public opinion. Republicans and movement conservatives who should have known better before the Iraq War—hint: they’re often the ones who decided it was a bad idea around 2006—were nonetheless so conditioned, like Pavlov’s dogs, to respond to ideological cues about anti-American antiwar sentiment that they shut down their brains and for years supported a policy that was harmful to their country as well as their party.
What was true in foreign policy—and still is, to some extent—remains true in economics, where we’ve seen a cartoon approach to smaller government and freer markets taken up by the Tea Party and some of its champions in Congress, much to the chagrin of, say, traditionalist Distributists and anti-corporatist libertarians alike. And to the chagrin as well of temperamental conservatives who these days are reviled as RINOs and moderates. Caricatures and publicity stunts prevail, and the results are Republican and movement-conservative policies that are deeply confused: Romneycare one minute; pitched resistance to Obamacare the next. Medicare Part D and the Bush deficits one minute; battles over the debt ceiling the next. The governing idea or image in the minds of movement conservatives is one in which a Republican fights the left through whatever policies he enacts, and a Democrat advances socialism through anything he does—even if the Republican and Democrat do pretty similar things. The intensity of the movement’s commitment to this false dichotomy seems almost inversely proportional to the concrete differences between GOP and Democrats. (The Iraq War, of course, was supported by Democrats as well as Republicans.)
It would be surprising if this systematic flaw in movement-conservative thinking only applied to foreign policy and economics. Might it also apply to jurisprudence? Read More…
New York‘s interview with Justice Scalia is drawing snark from the left (about Scalia’s belief in the devil) and no doubt nods of assent from the talk-radio right (the justice reveals his media-diet staples to be the Washington Times, Wall Street Journal, and Bill Bennett radio show). What caught my eye, however, were Scalia’s references to his Watergate-era experiences. They put me in mind of Barton Gellman’s Cheney book, Angler, which made me aware of how Congress’s reining in of Republican presidents Nixon and Ford shaped Cheney’s view (as well as Donald Rumsfeld’s) of executive power. What Scalia says sounds familiar:
It was a terrible time, not for the Republican Party, but for the presidency. It was such a wounded and enfeebled presidency, and Congress was just eating us alive. … It was a time when people were talking about “the imperial presidency.” I knew very well that the 900-pound gorilla in Washington is not the presidency. It’s Congress. If Congress can get its act together, it can roll over the president. That’s what the framers thought. They said you have to enlist your jealousy against the legislature in a democracy—that will be the source of tyranny.
The Framers, of course, were writing the new Constitution under a system whose existing charter, the Articles of Confederation, had hardly any executive power whatsoever. The critics of their handiwork, the anti-federalists, were greatly concerned about the tyrannical potential of the executive the proposed, but the Framers could see—as a glance at the Articles would show—that America in the 1780s wasn’t suffering from a surplus of power in the offices of a single magistrate. Have things changed at all in the ensuing 230 years? Perhaps not if your perspective is that of the Nixon White House.
Pressed to cite a heroic moment in his career—Scalia, to his credit, isn’t eager to name one—he finally cites his refusal to recuse himself from a case involving Dick Cheney’s claims of executive privilege for his energy task force. (Scalia had gone hunting with Cheney and, as CNN reported, “Scalia and Cheney also had a private dinner with Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld on Maryland’s Eastern Shore in November, when the Supreme Court was considering Cheney’s appeal.”)
“Most of my opinions don’t take guts,” Scalia tells New York‘s Jennifer Senior. “They take smarts. But not courage. And I was proud of that. I did the right thing and it let me in for a lot of criticism and it was the right thing to do and I was proud of that. So that’s the only heroic thing I’ve done.”
Matt Bruenig of the liberal think tank Demos recently enlisted John Locke’s First Treatise in making the case for “freedom from want,” which provoked a combox and Twitter rejoinder from Cato’s Jason Kuznicki. Here’s the passage Bruenig quotes:
a man can no more justly make use of another’s necessity to force him to become his vassal, by with-holding that relief God requires him to afford to the wants of his brother, than he that has more strength can seize upon a weaker, master him to his obedience, and with a dagger at his throat offer him death or slavery.
Kuznicki responded by invoking the Second Treatise as a development of Locke’s thought—which Bruenig finds problematic, noting that the First Treatise was actually composed later. (A full account of how and when the two treatises were written gets complicated.) In any case, Kuznicki need not have looked so far afield, when Locke’s elaboration of his thought is to be found just one paragraph later:
Should any one make so perverse an use of God’s blessings poured on him with a liberal hand; should any one be cruel and uncharitable to that extremity; yet all this would not prove that propriety in land, even in this case, gave any authority over the persons of men, but only that compact might; since the authority of the rich proprietor, and the subjection of the needy beggar, began not from the possession of the lord, but the consent of the poor man, who preferred being his subject to starving. And the man he thus submits to, can pretend to no more power over him, than he has consented to, upon compact.
Read on and you’ll find that Locke brings this back to a refutation of those (like Filmer) who ground political authority in God’s grant of the earth to some particular lineage. What Locke is at pains to explain here is that owning land does not mean one owns the people on the land—they may not be reduced to slaves; they also may not be reduced to feudal vassals—but rather whatever legitimate governing there is must derive from the subject’s consent at some level. Read More…