What Football Teaches about a Planned Economy

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The growing gap between the poor and the rich (at least the very rich) is reason for concern. With wealth concentration at the top, and an apparently shrinking middle class, no nation can thrive economically, politically, or culturally. But the path forward is not through a centrally managed economy. An economy controlled by the government cannot eliminate economic disparity. If you don’t believe me, look at professional football.

This weekend we saw the divisional playoff round unfold. On the AFC side of the playoff bracket every team that appeared in the divisional round last year appeared this year, and three of the four teams — Baltimore Ravens, New England Patriots, and Denver Broncos — have been playoff regulars for more than a decade. A similar story is told on the NFC side. The Green Bay Packers and San Francisco 49ers were once again in the second round of the playoffs, and each is a storied franchise with regular appearances in the playoffs and Super Bowl. The Seattle Seahawks made their second appearance in three years, and the Atlanta Falcons made their third trip in a row to the playoffs — their fourth in five years.

The winners from this weekend further illustrate the idea that the best teams in the NFL remain relatively the same over time. The 49ers, seeking their sixth Super Bowl appearance, are in the NFC championship game for the second year in a row. The AFC championship game is a repeat from last year and it is the third time in four years the Ravens and Patriots have faced one another in the championship game.

We should not expect this sort of regularity in professional football, and we should see more parity — if centrally planned economies work as expected.

Professional football is a centrally planned economy, with rules to help the worst teams and keep the best ones from always winning. Two of these rules are especially obvious and powerful.

First, the worse a team is, the better draft picks it gets. It is thus, theoretically, able to improve at a faster rate than the teams that pick behind it.

Second, there is a salary cap that keeps teams from spending as much as they might on players. This keeps the most talented players from concentrating in the biggest markets, such as sometimes happens with the Yankees or Red Sox in baseball, where there is no salary cap. In football every team has the same amount of money to spend on players.

In the planned football economy, we should see a more random playoff picture year to year, but instead the gap between successful teams and unsuccessful teams is growing.

In football, then, we should see a more random playoff picture year to year, but instead we get regularity. Such teams as the Cleveland Browns and the Kansas City Chiefs find it difficult to win consistently — and the gap between successful teams and unsuccessful teams is growing. The reason: rules may not be crucial, so long as they are applied fairly. If rules are applied fairly, the better-run organizations will come out ahead on a regular basis. They will separate themselves from the pack. There will be aberrations, but over time, the best will win more regularly.

This little sports experiment indicates that if a centrally managed economy is installed, and rules applied fairly, there will still be winners and losers, and there will still be a disparity between the haves and have-nots. After all, the Dallas Cowboys are worth over $2 billion and the Jacksonville Jaguars just sold for $760 million. And this in a league that has rules aimed at producing competitive and economic parity.

But what we know of politics and business is that the rules don’t always get applied fairly. The more money and power one has, the more access and leverage one can get within the political apparatus. Just ask the National Rifle Association or AIG. Thus, it becomes paradoxical to think that government policy, shaped as it is by lobbyists and special interests, will be equitable and fair. Turning to government to fix economic disparity is turning to the proxy for those at the top of the economic food chain. Those who want the government to intervene in the economy to correct economic disparities miss this paradox.

We have seen the government play favorites during the 2008–09 Wall Street bailouts. We have seen it play favorites in the subsidization of companies such as Tesla and Fisker (makers of $100,000 electric sports cars). Smaller banks, and companies without political influence, are left to sink or swim on their own, while larger ones, and ones that promote a government policy, are naturally aided by the government and use it to maintain an advantage.

Ideally we would see a free market solution adopted because people recognized the paradox and the futility of relying on the government. But a wholesale remake of the political economy is likely not going to take place. This isn’t to say that people are right to compromise their principles, but like a good quarterback, people tend simply to take what the defense will give them and enjoy small victories along the way.

The only feasible solution to this problem is to have simple, transparent government policies for regulations and taxes. The complexity of the tax code and the policies regulating business make it nearly impossible for anyone without a team of attorneys and accountants to chart a successful path. The federal tax code alone is so complicated that it’s not clear whether the fiscal cliff bargain raised or lowered taxes.

If simplicity and transparency were instituted, however, anyone who cared to pay attention would be qualified to do so, thus making it far more likely that the rules would be fairly written and fairly applied. The average citizen would no longer be at the mercy of politicians or pundits when struggling to decipher what the government had actually done.

Of course, simplicity and transparency would not generate economic equality either; but that's not the goal. Inequality is going to exist. Our primary concern ought to be with inequality generated, or exacerbated, by government intervention.




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The Non-Political Side of Life

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At times like this, we all need to be reminded that there is a world outside of politics — a world of wonders that has nothing to do with Mitt Romney or Barack Obama. I was recently reminded of that when I spent a few days on Isle Royale.

If you’re like all of my friends but one, you have never heard of Isle Royale. So think of Lake Superior, the way it looks on the map. It looks like a wolf’s head, pointing west. The eye of the wolf is Isle Royale. It’s 50 miles long and 10 miles wide, and as Grace Lee Nute wrote in her book about the greatest of all lakes, “It is not really an island at all, but a miniature continent, surrounded by its own islands.” Isle Royale is part of Michigan, the land of shibboleths, so its name is naturally pronounced differently from what you would expect. It isn’t “roy-ALL”; it’s “ROY-ull.” (In Michigan, Charlotte is “shar-LOT,” Lake Orion is “Lake OH-ree-on,” Mackinac is “MACK-in-aw,” and Sault Ste. Marie is “the Soo.”)

Nobody lives all year long on Isle Royale; it’s a national park with a lodge and places to camp and a lot of not-very-well-frequented trails into forest, steep, and swamp. There are moose, and I saw their tracks. There are fox, and I saw their spoors. There is a tribe of wolves, and I didn’t see any part of them. The Lake is perfectly clear, and at dawn the planet Venus shines not like a star but like a silver door left open in the sky.

Very little has ever happened on Isle Royale. Starting 5,000 years ago, Indians mined copper there, and it’s a big thrill to see the little pits where they did that. The stuff traded all over North America, and perhaps beyond. But they didn’t live there, either. In the 19th century white people tried large-scale mining, and failed; the ores weren’t good enough. Independent souls established outposts where they fished and sold their catch to ships that called at the island. The biggest excitement was the occasional ship that managed to wreck itself, running into Isle Royale. In the 1930s, do-gooders decided to protect the island from the nondevelopment that was taking place, and the national park was established.

Nobody I encountered, even the loudmouths in the bar and grill, showed the slightest interest in politics.

Why am I telling you all this? Because there’s no television on the island; there’s no cell phone service; and there’s only one hot spot for the internet — which I saw nobody using except me. I didn’t even know it existed until my last day on the island. And nobody I encountered, even the loudmouths in the bar and grill, showed the slightest interest in politics, or curiosity about what was happening in the desperate electoral war being waged in The Battleground States.

This attitude continued in evidence when I took the boat back to Houghton, Michigan (80 miles away). Nobody there — even, again, the loudmouths, and they’ve got a few of them in Houghton, too — had anything to say about politics. In Houghton’s twin city, Hancock, I saw a huge Ron Paul sign hanging from someone’s porch, but that was it. This indifference to civic virtue didn’t seem to have any harmful effect on people’s moral stature. During the long boat ride, I noticed that everyone, ultimately including me, left all valuable articles — computers, purses, cameras, small but expensive gear — just lying around on the seats: no crime was anticipated. In Hancock, I attended one of the local churches, which like everything else in Upper Michigan is seriously down on its luck but in which the tiny congregation frankly and cheerfully discussed its history, prospects, and current business with the chance visitor from Southern California. After a long conversation over coffee in the basement social hall, the last person left (I had exhausted all the others) asked whether I’d had a chance to study the century-old carvings around the altar, upstairs. “No,” I said. “Do you have a couple of minutes to show me?” “Oh,” she replied, gripping her walker and swiveling herself up from the table, “my ride is here, and I have to go. Just look around, and close the door behind you when you go.” No problem; I probably wouldn’t hurt anything. So for the next two hours I had the opportunity to enjoy some of the most remarkable works of art I’ve ever seen. No advertising words had been used. Nobody talked about “Houghton’s iconic church” or claimed that its décor was “legendary,” “famous,” or (heaven forfend) “infamous.” It was just there, if you wanted to see it. Take a look.

Wonders of the nonpolitical world.

Unfortunately, however, I need to be fair. I am not one of those libertarians who think that all would be well if the state would just wither. The world of nonpolitics has its heavens, but it also has its hells. Liberty’s observant managing editor, Drew Ferguson, located two of them the other day. They are visions from which even Dante Alighieri would turn in horror.

Of course I’m exaggerating, at least about the first one. But it does involve dying. It’s the headline that TV station WBTV (wherever that is) gave to one of its stories: “MAN KILLED TO DEATH.” It’s possible, barely possible, that whoever wrote that headline had in mind the words of the Revelation of St. John the Divine (2:23), in which Jesus says of an ideological enemy, “I will kill her children with death.” But probably not.

Drew’s other find was much worse, and much more elaborate.

Georgia Tech, I am sorry to report, has been going through a spiritual crisis. It has felt the need to “reenergize its look, while staying connected with its past.” It is, therefore, doing what other collective souls in crisis have done. It is “showcasing” new football uniforms.

To me (but what do I know?) these new football suits look exactly like all the others. But the ramblin’ wrecks from Georgia Tech know better. Among the “Jersey Highlights” are the following (and I quote):

• New custom Georgia Tech sublimation pattern on the neck front, sleeves and back insert
• New custom stretch twill numbers that reduce jersey weight and provide a leaner fit as compared to standard fabric numbers
• New custom sublimation number pattern and font featuring "GT navy" honeycomb
• New "GT gold" banded edge offsets sublimation pattern for sharper contrast at stitch borders
• Extreme Compression tight fit fabric minimizes grab capabilities by opponents
• Lower mesh insert on front and back for ultimate breathability

“I’m sold!” was Drew’s remark.

But what, you may ask, is a “sublimation pattern”?

I would remind you that every art has its lingo, and that technical words, which look like nonsense to the uninitiated, must often be used by professionals. “Sublimation pattern” is a perfect example. I haven’t the faintest idea what that could mean. If you know, please contact Liberty. I do know, however, because the manufacturers have divulged this information, that the outfit as a whole “catalyze[s] a spirit of enthusiasm for the season ahead.”

Of course, this stuff is benign, compared to political oratory.

Not quite so benign, but similar in effect to the football-uniform puffery, is the allegedly technical language of social scientists. A grad student at Princeton, who wishes to remain anonymous, obliged this column by reporting the following sample, taken from an academic disquisition of some kind. The mighty problem that engages its author is the old issue of whether people can be attracted to each other, despite their differences. He concludes that they are attracted, until they aren’t. In other words, you may think I’m fun because I’m different, but you’ll tell me to get lost if my difference gets too large. Here’s the great social scientist’s way of putting it:

Consider “Like attracts like” versus “Opposites attract each other.” . . . [I]f attractiveness is an inversely U-shaped function of novelty or similarity, each of the two opposing mechanisms might simply describe different parts of the curve. . . . [U]ltimately, some optimal level is reached, whereafter increases in the independent variable are held to give rise to reductions in liking.

 

Ya gotta love it.

I’m told that the paper from which this sample is drawn gets handed out frequently in classes at famous colleges like Princeton, and that students think it’s hilariously funny. I hope that’s why the professors hand it out. Where would we be if they actually thought it meant something?

Among the entirely nongovernmental institutions I cherish is the peculiarly American phenomenon of the fortune cookie. (No, they don’t come from China; they are as American as you and I, whoever we are.) But have you noticed that their quality has been declining? This decline is, in fact, disastrous; it represents a total misunderstanding of the genre.

A fortune cookie is supposed to give you a fortune. Picture yourself going to a fortuneteller. She (almost all of them are she’s) looks into your hand and says, “I foresee there will be problems in your life from the young ambitious one, and also from the lady with gray eyes.” She blathers on like that for a few minutes, then indicates that this is the point where you’re supposed to leave, or give her another 20 bucks and get your other palm read too. So you give her the other 20, and she starts in about how the man from southern parts will bless you with his business, but there will be much danger from accidents with cars.

No, this isn’t specific enough to ruin your day, but at least you feel that she’s given you some of your money’s worth.

Apparently, however, the fortune cookie people figure that by the time their product arrives at your table, you’ve already eaten the meal and have to pay the check, so why should they bother to come up with a fortune? So they give you something else.

This is what passed for a “fortune” on one of my recent visits to Chinese cuisine:

Your future looks bright.

What? That’s a fortune? No, it’s not.

My friend Mehmet, who was with me on that expedition and therefore had to put up with my rant, made this suggestion: “Maybe it should say, ‘Your October 12 looks bright.’” Well, yes. That would be an improvement.

On another recent occasion, Mehmet and I were both handed that most pathetic of all substitutes for a fortune — good advice.

Let’s think for a moment. Suppose there’s something wrong with you. You keep having these blinding headaches. So you go to a doctor. Or maybe you go to a “spiritual counselor” of some kind. No difference. You want to know what’s going on, and what’slikely to result. In short, you want your fortune told. And suppose the person whom you’re consulting looks you in the eye and says, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

“Huh?” you ask.

“A stitch in time saves nine,” he continues. “Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.”

You would, I am sure, be tempted to commit assault and battery, not to mention stiffing the jerk when he presented the bill.

So you can imagine my feelings when, on that other recent occasion, I looked at my fortune and saw:

A good beginning is only half done.

What the . . . ? What kind of human being would write crap like that, and put it in an innocent lump of dough?

As I looked at the squirrely little slip of paper, my whole life flashed before my eyes. I vividly remembered the summer when my parents, who were very averse to travel, actually took me on a trip to New York City. In the restaurants along the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which were then very nice, and fascinating to little kids from Michigan, there were scales into which you could insert a quarter and receive, along with your weight, a long, narrow, tightly rolled piece of paper that contained your fortune, reckoned according to your astrological sign. The thing was vastly specific; it must have had 2000 words in it, with all sorts of numbers and figures and days of the week and months of the year and forecasts about what would happen to you on every day of the next month. It was wonderful. I cherished it, and hid it in my hands in the back seat of the car, because if my parents saw it they would not only scoff but probably take it away from me, as a warning against superstition. I have no faith in divination whatsoever, but I wish I had that fascinating object now. It was a work of art.

I do know, however, because the manufacturers have divulged this information, that the outfit as a whole “catalyzes a spirit of enthusiasm for the season ahead.”

Soon after that, The Old Farmer’s Almanac swam into my childish field of vision. In those days, it wasn’t a bland modern-liberal throwaway, as it is now. It not only presented wonderful astronomical data, full of weird symbols and funny expressions (“ecliptic,” “the moon rides low”); it had Features that were real Features, by God. My first acquaintance with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner came from its reprinting in the Old Farmer’s Almanac, which also ran the Doré illustrations — mysterious, tantalizing, unforgettable. In those times, the OFA still asserted that it had a secret algorithm for predicting the weather, and it gave out its meteorological forecasts in rhymed poetry. Oh my! What a wonderful thing.

But here, sitting on the table, amid the ruins of the cookie I destroyed to free the verbal genie from its bottle, is a “fortune” that says:

A good beginning is only half done.

That doesn’t even make sense. What would it mean to “do” a “beginning”? And how would a beginning be “good” if there was only “half” of it?

As always, Mehmet came out with a cogent comment. “It’s like the Donner Party,” he said. “This isn’t so bad; it’s only begun.” At first, the people in the Donner Party may have thought that a couple more inches of snow wouldn’t really mean very much . . .

Come to think of it, that comment — “it’s like the Donner Party” — is a pretty good summary of political discourse. It tempts me to drift back to what might, with too much generosity, be called the rhetoric of the present campaign. So I’ll quit while I’m ahead — or, in fortune cookie language, leave while my good beginning is still half done.

rsquo;t seem to have any harmful effect on people




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Tim Tebow's Secret Handshake

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This weekend, the Denver Broncos face off against the heavily-favored New England Patriots in the second round of the NFL championship playoffs. The game is worthy of note because it means another week of pop culture fixation on Denver quarterback Tim Tebow.

Even if you don’t follow professional football, you’ve probably heard of Tebow. The former University of Florida star has crossed over into mainstream culture reference. Some of the popular interest focuses on his unconventional mechanics and style of play; most of it focuses on his devout — and conspicuously proclaimed — Christian faith. His practice of kneeling in prayer before and after games has been copied (and mocked) widely.

As long as he keeps any jihadi impulses to himself, I care little about another man’s religious beliefs. Nor do I share the contempt that some atheists have for the faithful. Generally, I agree with the spirit of Pascal’s Wager: lacking conclusive data, I would be arrogant to assert or deny the existence of an omnipotent diety.

Musing on the metaphysical qualities of God isn’t the point of this reflection, though. The strong reaction to one football player’s public shows of piety renders my diffidence . . . insufficient.

Tebow doesn’t mind proselytizing. In fact, he — like many of his coreligionists — believes that promoting God is essential to serving God. His logic goes something like this: God gave Tebow athletic talent and charisma not because He cares who wins a given game but because fame on the football field creates a bigger platform for Tebow’s message of devotion. So, Tebow believes he is obligated to use his media access to reach out to others more effectively than conventional preachers can. Doing so, he plays into the biases and neuroses of the statist Left . . . and neither side seems to mind.

The establishment Left has had many cultural victories; one of these is the effective blurring of people’s personal and political lives. This blurring is a major reason that Tebow shoulders more political connotation than any other sports celebrity in recent years. But “the personal is political” trivializes and cheapens political discourse. It reducesto stale cliché debates that should be vibrant and essential.

Tebow courts this clichéd response. While still a college player, he filmed a television ad for an anti-abortion advocacy group. The ad was sophisticated and avoided strident words or tone. The already-famous athlete and his mother talked about health troubles she’d experienced while expecting him; she implied that another woman might have chosen to have an abortion. And they ended by making a pitch for choosing life.

The usual gang of idiots in the popular media — the execrable Bill Maher, the fey Jon Stewart, the undeservedly self-impressed Rachel Maddow — rose to the bait and have taken turns pillorying Tebow. But all of this is a kind of Kabuki ritual. The outrage is canned, the excess seems calculated. The TV people make cheap points with their core audiences; the Christian athlete gets a red badge of courage with his.

I’ve long been interested in the “secret handshake” that some public figures signal — perhaps instinctively — to the public. Whether that public is adoring or loathing. To me, Bill Clinton remains the master signaler of our times; he conveyed loyalty to the statist Left, even though his actions sometimes betrayed their faith. The pop singer Madonna does it, too; she conveys much more than she actually delivers on stage.

The current president has some of this — but seems more passive and less masterful than Slick Willie or the Material Girl.

Tebow is very good at this signaling. His recent success on the football field is, as he says, only part of a more-ambitious agenda. His opposite number on the Patriots — future Hall of Fame quarterback Tom Brady — may be better at his job. But Tebow’s playing a bigger game.




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The Impact of It All

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So many Niagaras of words have flowed from the Penn State sex scandal that, unpleasant though the task may be — and it is plenty unpleasant — Word Watch needs to comment on them.

There’s no good place to start, so let’s just dive into the notorious email that Penn State Athletic Flunky Mike McQueary sent to a friend, denying that he had failed to take action when he (allegedly) saw Very Important Coach Jerry Sandusky having sex with a young boy in the showers at the football building:

“I did stop it, not physically . . . but made sure it was stopped when I left that locker room . . . I did have discussions with police and with the official at the university in charge of police . . . no one can imagine my thoughts or wants to be in my shoes for those 30–45 seconds . . . trust me.”

Surely Mike McQueary deserves a promotion. The language of this note is much more appropriate to a university administrator than to a low-level munchkin. First, there’s the strong assertion (“I did stop it”); then there’s the telling admission (“not physically”); then there’s that curious kind of statement that makes one pause, read it again, and speculate about what it really means, without ever knowing how one could tell if one had actually found the meaning.

“Made sure it was stopped when I left that locker room.” Does that mean you really, personally stopped it? If so, how? But maybe you mean that you let it go on, but when you went back and checked, you found it had stopped, possibly because of whatever it was you did, or didn’t do, before. Is that it? Should we ask for the floor plans, so we can see where the locker room was, in relation to the showers? Was the interval between the time when you saw something happening in the shower and the time when you left the locker room the same as “those 30–45 seconds”? Or what?

But the thing that really puts McQueary in the higher administrative or political realm is his chain of self-references: “No one can imagine my thoughts or wants to be in my shoes . . . . trust me.”

On this one matter, I do trust him. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. But I can well imagine his thoughtswhen he was confronted with the need to protect a child from sexual abuse by a high-ranking operative of the “educational” institution he worked for. I believe he was thinking, “Damn! This is gonna get me fired!”

How does a bunch of college kids marching around with candles make anyone feel better about having been molested?

That thick vein of self-regard, and the obfuscating style that is its inseparable companion, runs into McQueary’s next remarks: “I am getting hammered for handling this the right way . . . or what I thought at the time was right . . .” Silly me. I thought this mindless jock was “getting hammered” for doing something wrong. Now I have to consider the possibility that he thought he was right. Gosh. What about that? I guess if he thought he was right, I’ll have to feel sorry for him. Won’t I? Won’t you?

Uh, maybe not, but it was a good try, planting that logic tree: either he’s right — or he’s wrong, but in that case he’s right anyway, because he thought he was right. . . .

The McQueary statement that galls me most, however, is the following: “I had to make tough impacting quick decisions.” Fascinating — what were those decisions? I would like to know. Once more, either he did something right, or he did something he thought was right — but what was it? Whatever it may have been, it was “quick” (45 seconds? In 45 seconds you can get halfway through the Gettysburg Address), “tough” (on whom?), and “impacting” (again, on whom?). Apparently it wasn’t especially impacting on Coach Sandusky, or on Penn State University, or on its head football coach, or on its president, or on McQueary himself, or on anyone else involved in this mess. All of them went on their merry way, for the next nine years. One imagines that McQueary’s decision might at least have been impacting on McQueary. But what was the impact? No one knows. Nonetheless, McQueary wants everyone to care and sympathize.

Sadly, impact is not just a flunkeyism. Itis the word of choice for all those high-class people who specialize in, well, impacting public opinion. First marketed to congressmen and corporate CEOs, it soon passed to all other professionals, including professional educators such as McQueary and his associates. The Penn State scandal alone has registered as many impacts as the surface of the moon.

We are all impacted now, and no one more than The Second Mile, the organization for disadvantaged kids that Sandusky founded, and which he reputedly used as a means of identifying his sexual targets. On Nov. 6, soon after the scandal broke, Second Mile canceled a fundraising event, explaining, “While we are providing our children’s programming as scheduled, The Second Mile has decided, out of respect and compassion for all impacted by the allegations from the Attorney General’s office, to postpone The Second Mile’s Reverse Drawing . . .” If you push your way through this thicket of words, you will discover that what has made an “impact” on the unspecified “all” isn’t any actions of Sandusky himself but simply the force of the Attorney General’s “allegations” about such actions.

Coupled with this announcement was a carefully worded narrative intended to exculpate The Second Mile. It started with the all and impact boilerplate: “Our prayers, care and compassion go out to all impacted.” I suppose that includes the leadership of Second Mile, people who have certainly been impacted, if not deprived of their jobs, by the events in question. But in their case, prayer has been unavailing. Eight days after the message just quoted, the organization’s CEO resigned, modestly stipulating that any further statement on his part would take “the focus from where it should be — on the children, young adults and families who have been impacted. Their pain and their healing is the greatest priority, and my thoughts and prayers have been and will continue to be with them.”

In other words, he’s not talking. But this word impacted . . . it’s a curious expression. It used to mean that something had smashed into something else, and the latter had been seriously damaged, perhaps destroyed. Now, under the influence of obfuscating politicians, officious or embarrassed educators, and illiterate journalists, impacted can mean anything within the range of “affected in some way.” Dude! Your beagle is impacting my front lawn. Dude.

Surely, kids who have been seduced or molested by sex-greedy adults have been seriously impacted, but the more you use that word, the less it means. The image of a crater, or a tooth in trouble, seems less significant, and less humane, the more you hear it applied to humans. It’s an easy word, isn’t it? No one can claim that you aren’t caring enough, if you use such an emphatic term. Especially when you couple it with a standard reference to thoughts and prayers.

I don’t want to sound self-righteous, but when I tell someone that he is in my thoughts and prayers, I mean that I am actually thinking about him and praying for him. That’s simple enough. But what do you think is happening when the normal public figure says that people are in his thoughts and prayers? Do you believe that presidents respond to earthquakes, plane crashes, droughts, floods, and deaths in battle by actually thinking and praying about those who have been impacted? They say they do, but I don’t think they’re telling the truth.

He was patiently bemused by the stupidity of the young.

Listening to this jargon, I picture the president abruptly leaving his golf games, lobbyist shakedowns, and reelection strategy sessions to rush up to the family quarters and kneel in prayer on behalf of every person endangered by all those floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, and military defeats about which he has publicly extended his thoughts and prayers during the past 24 hours. That’s what we’re supposed to imagine, isn’t it?

I don’t deny that even a president may sometimes pray, and pray for someone other than himself. Many presidents have done that. Until recently, however, they haven’t made so many confessions that they are always busy thinking and praying about people in the news. Every religious person should oppose such pretense at piety, instead of leaving it for the atheists to ridicule. One reason why this is especially important to debunk is that the hypocrisy of the official class has a way of seeping down, like fluids escaping from a corpse, into the language of everyone else. In other words, as President Obama would put it, official smarm impacts us all in a negative manner.

On November 11, on Fox News, Juan Williams — a journalist who knows and respects the English language — had the unenviable task of reporting on events at Penn State, where students rioted because the trustees overthrew the local god, Joe Paterno, the head coach who failed to act in the Sandusky case. The insurrection happened just when the university was most vulnerable, facing, as it did, an invasion from Nebraska on the coming Saturday. So after the first night of orgiastic grief, the Penn State patriots decided that smarm was better than violence. Without relinquishing their support for JoPa, they decided to take strong moral action — by holding a candlelight vigil. Huh? Yet this is exactly what you would expect from the disciples of an ersatz religion, such as college football. Light some candles, and everyone will know you’re devout. They may even confuse your worship of fuhbawl with the ceremonies of one of the higher religions.

But let’s see . . . there had to be a vigil, but what would be the point of it? What would it ostensibly be for? Of course, it was “to show support for the children who were allegedly abused” — an interesting use of the word support. One supports a football team by screaming slogans in a stadium. These verbal oblations are assumed to have a magical effect on the prowess of the team. But how does a bunch of college kids marching around with candles make anyone feel better about having been molested?

This question must have occurred to someone besides me, because the vigil organizers got more specific. They said that their show of support was aimed at “raising money for victims of sexual abuse.” That sounds good — but of course, the actual victims weren’t going to receive any of that money. Oh no. Contributions would go to “groups fighting child abuse.” Again, it sounds good. But how do you use money for something like that? Is this how we deal with other crimes? Do we give money to groups fighting burglaries? How about murder — do you think we should donate money to groups fighting that?

Please don’t accuse me of being insensitive to victims of burglary, murder, or any other actual crime. But guess what? We already have an organization that’s designed to fight such crimes, including child abuse; and it is very well funded. We all contribute to its maintenance. That organization is called the police.

Now back to Juan Williams. He had to interview two young women, students at Penn State, who were involved in the mighty candlelight vigil. These young people loved Penn State. They pitied its sorry plight. They viewed it as an innocent lamb, deprived of its shepherd (Joe Paterno). But this religious devotion to alma mater seems to have made them especially vulnerable to leakages of pomposity from the upper administrative levels. When Williams asked one of them a softball starter question, she declined to answer before she had pounded all the rivets into the official boilerplate. “First,” she intoned, “I just want to take a moment to extend my thoughts and prayers to the victims and their families on behalf of myself and all the Penn State family.”

Now President Spanier adds one more to the list of perfect objects. His statement is the ne plus ultra of administrative arrogance.

Williams reacted to this extraordinary statement in the only way in which a courteous gentleman could react: he tried to make sense of what the young woman was saying; then, failing that, he contented himself with a few pacific, grandfatherly remarks, which neither of the students appeared to understand. He was patiently bemused by the stupidity of the young. But for God’s sake, what kind of culture is it that inspires a 20-year-old with the notion that a university is a “family,” that she is empowered, by her proffered feelings, to speak for that “family,” and that she has thereby achieved the sacramental role of thinking and praying over other people, personally unknown to her — on television, yet? Her effortless assumption of the official attitude was bizarre, and unsettling, though hardly unprecedented.

Is this what universities teach? I’m afraid they do.

I should add that Penn State students were advised, at the candlelight vigil, to go to the Nebraska game wearing blue, which for some reason has been identified by someone as the color of “child abuse awareness.” Awareness? Does that word have a meaning? Is there a non-trivial sense in which my awareness of child abuse does something for its victims? In any event, the slogan of the day was, "Stop Child Abuse, Blue Out Nebraska." A strangely assorted pair of sentiments! But yes, the stadium was full of blue on Saturday, though Nebraska was not blued out. Nebraska won.

Winners and losers . . . one sadly revealing episode of the Penn State scandal was college president Graham Spanier’s official statement (Nov. 7) about the arrest of two of his fellow administrators: “The protection of children is of paramount importance. The university will take a number of actions moving forward to increase the safety and security within our facilities and make everyone aware of the protocols in place for handling these issues."

From time to time, it is given to mortals to view a work of human artifice so perfect, in its way, as to lie beyond all analytic criticism. The Taj Mahal. Andrea del Sarto’s “Madonna of the Harpies.”The final movements of Saint-Saens’ Organ Symphony. Yeats’s “Crazy Jane” poems. Now President Spanier adds one more to the list of perfect objects. His statement is the ne plus ultra of administrative arrogance. One stands in awe of it: it is a perfectly pompous, perfectly empty statement. It is perfect in that way, not because it says nothing at all — it says a lot of things — but because it claims to mean something, and simultaneously withdraws all its purported meanings, thus arriving, in this most challenging of contexts, at the nothingness it pretends to reject.

The university will take actions. What actions? A number of them.

The university will increase safety and security. How? Somehow.

There are protocols in place for handling these issues. What protocols? What issues? What does “issues” mean, anyhow? Never mind; we will make everyone aware.

Meanwhile, we are all moving forward. Does that mean . . . just possibly . . . that there was something wrong in the past, which we are now moving away from? That’s a possibility. Exploring it, however, would ruin the effect.

But here’s the good part. The statement didn’t work. Graham Spanier and Joe Paterno were fired. Of the fallen Dr. Spanier, said to have been the most highly paid university administrator in America, the governor of the state opined: “People lost confidence in [his] ability to lead.”

The word wasn’t “talk.” The word was “lead.” There’s a difference. And no heap of words can cover it up.




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Hockey Riot, or Prison Riot?

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June 15, downtown Vancouver. This was not a hockey riot. And the lessons that are being learned from it are exactly the wrong ones.

I live in Vancouver, and I watched the last game of the Stanley Cup playoffs — and the postgame bonfire — from the corner of Georgia and Hamilton Streets. That intersection was the center of both the cheering and the chaos. But I’ve been in real riots: Prague when the Iron Curtain fell, an ethnic riot in southern Egypt in my teens, Kathmandu when the king was killed, East Jerusalem during the first intifada. What happened in Vancouver was different. It was a soft, gentle riot. The police were kinder and gentler than any I’ve ever seen at a riot. The rioters — using the term loosely to encompass all Vancouverites, since the rioters reflect poorly on the whole city — quickly mobilized thousands of volunteers to clean up the downtown core, many taking a day off work to do so. I went back the next afternoon, and by 2 p.m. it was nearly impossible to tell that a riot had occurred.

This was a riot in a fundamentally “nice” city, often too nice. People don’t even jaywalk here. After Game 5 I saw police get angry at someone for jaywalking. If you spend your life being told what to do, if taking a bike on the West Vancouver Seawall during the week when it’s nearly empty gets a dozen good Samaritans telling you “it’s against the rules,” and if you combine that with the high energy and low brain function of a Surrey suburban teenager — I have no idea whether the “anarchists” were from Surrey (a blue-collar suburb of Vancouver), but it’s standard practice during riots to blame foreign subversive elements and I just can’t imagine soft-and-gentle Vancouverites rioting, whereas the Ford F-150 culture in Surrey I can — then no wonder people riot when, once every 17 years, they’re suddenly unshackled.

But that will not be the lesson here. The result of this riot will be more rules and constraints on freedom — even though the energy at the corner of Georgia and Hamilton didn’t really come from hockey; it came from people living in a virtual prison of rules and regulations. When people habituated to living under rules and computerized consequences, which follow them their entire lives — people who have never had to learn self-control, internal restraint — suddenly find themselves without external restraints, they go crazy.

Yes, I’m sure that some people were there for precisely that reason, for the opportunity of temporary madness. The media had been going on for weeks about the 1994 riots, the last time Vancouver lost the Stanley Cup in Game 7. So what did they expect? You remind people relentlessly, get them thinking “riots,” and then those few people who think that riots may be fun gather from the whole city to attend. The 2011 riot was a near-perfect replica of its 1994 inspiration, though whereas the older event had a trigger — a man falling from a lamp standard into the crowd below — this year’s version didn’t need one. Or, rather, revived memory of the 1994 riots was itself the trigger, with crowds chanting “Let’s go riot!” by the end of the first period.

But the photo of the kiss in the middle of the riot shows better than any number of words that this was not about hockey. Nor even about destruction. It was about damning the consequences, about a momentary break in our mechanized, almost mineralized society. The power of that photo in telling a different narrative from that of either “hockey fans” or “destructive anarchists” is evident in the energy the mainstream media has devoted to deflating the photo, repeating remarks from the kissing boy’s mother that he was just helping the girl get up — though he’s clearly both kissing and groping her — and that he probably didn’t even know there was a riot going on. I’ve been in tear gas. It’s hard not to notice.

This wasn’t about hockey. It was an outlet. Hockey just happens to be a cultural trump card here in Canada, an excuse to let go, like Mardi Gras in New Orleans or Carnival in Rio. You cure this sort of insanity with fewer rules, more bacchanal outlets — just as prison wardens have slowly learned that you can decrease riots by allowing prisoners to rearrange their own furniture, and forest rangers know that frequent controlled fires prevent major conflagrations. But the lesson learned by the powers that be is the opposite. That’s the truly sad consequence of all this stupidity.

Both the mainstream and the social media are full of outrage right now, from moral to economic. Morally, sure, it’s hard to justify smashing things. But the references to economic harm are a bit too simple. All those cars and shops are insured, and most of the insurance companies are owned by people outside Vancouver, with the costs spread out across either the shareholders or the pool of the insured, depending on your view of how elastic the insurance markets are. Either way, the result will be a net transfer of wealth in Vancouverites' favor. They won't end up being damaged.

But the real beneficiaries will be police budgets and politicians seeking reelection by promising to clamp down on “crime” with new laws, which only the law-abiding will obey, thus decreasing the freedom of the productive members of society without influencing the actions of the law-breakers in any way.

Laws are always a one-way ratchet. That’s why the ability to riot is important. But it’s like pulling out a gun. Stupid to do so without a clearly achievable agenda — whether it’s the elimination of a tax or a law or all the way to some sort of revolution. Still, there is something appealing about all this. In America, the people are scared of the government. In Europe, the governments are scared of the people, precisely because the people haven’t forgotten how to riot. This is why workers have healthcare, a minimum five weeks of paid vacation, and generally far more power vis-à-vis their employers than workers have in the United States. (I’m not debating the economic consequences of that worker power, just the fact that it exists.) I always assumed that Canada was more like the US, but maybe we still have a little life left. The problem is that the act of taking the pulse in this way will itself weaken it.

And sure enough, exactly one week after the riots, British Columbia’s privacy commissioner approved the Vancouver Police Department’s use of an administrative driver’s license database together with facial-recognition software to identify and catch rioters. Big Brother never hesitates to use these sorts of things to get a foot in the door. And what’s perhaps even more frightening, the police have admitted to being overwhelmed with the amount of evidence provided by all the Little Brothers looking on, photographing, filming.

So, yes, I’m upset at the stupidity of the rioters. But not for all the proper moral reasons. Nor for the economic ones. Rather, for the improper, immoral ones. The right ones. What happened on June 15 in downtown Vancouver should upset all self-respecting anarchists and libertarians far more than it upsets the law-and-order types. The latter are strengthened by it. The former are weakened.




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Individualism in Real Life

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Bethany Hamilton is one of those perfect libertarian heroes. When she wants something, she goes after it. When things go wrong, she looks for a way to make it right. She doesn't whine or complain, even when the thing that goes wrong is the horror of a shark taking off her arm. She relies on herself, her family, and her God.

The movie about Bethany, Soul Surfer, has its predictably maudlin moments, fueled by Marco Beltrami's heavily emotional musical score, but don't let that put you off. If you are looking for a film to demonstrate libertarian principles to your friends, take them to Soul Surfer.

The film is based on the true story of Bethany, a competitive surfer with corporate sponsorship who was on her way to professional status when a huge shark bit off her arm. She returned to competitive surfing within a matter of months, and is now a professional surfer. She also seems to be a really nice girl. I learned that not only from the film, but also from the articles I have read about her.

And the Hamiltons seem to be a model libertarian family. They ignored traditional middle-class expectations in order to follow the dreams they made for themselves. All of them, parents and children alike, live to surf. When Bethany showed a great aptitude for surfing, her parents opted out of the government school system and educated her at home so she could take advantage of daytime surfing. After her injury, they did for her only the things she absolutely could not do for herself, encouraging her quickly to find new ways of managing her "ADLs" (activities of daily living).

The film portrays the Hamiltons (Dennis Quaid and Helen Hunt, parents) as a close-knit family within a close-knit community of surfers who understand the true nature of competition. True competition isn't cutthroat or unfair. In fact, unfettered competition has the power to make every person and every product better. Even Bethany's surfing nemesis, Malina Birch (Sonya Balmores), is portrayed as competitively solid. After she paddles full out toward a wave during a competition instead of kindly slowing down to allow for Bethany's injury, Bethany (AnnaSophia Robb) thanks Malina for treating her as an equal and pushing her to be her best. It's a great example of the good that competition can accomplish.

Instead of turning to government support groups to help her deal with her injury, Bethany turns to three free-market sources: family, business, and religion. When she returns to surfing, she rejects the judges' offer to give her a head start paddling past the surf. Instead, her father designs a handle to help her "deck dive" under the waves. When finances are a problem, a news magazine offers to provide her with a prosthetic arm in exchange for a story, and a surfboard manufacturer sponsors her with equipment and clothing. The youth leader at her church (Carrie Underwood) gives her a fuller perspective on her life by taking her on a service mission to Thailand after the tsunami that hit in 2004. There she learns the joy of serving others — a kind of work that earns her psychic benefits rather than monetary rewards. She isn't "giving back"; she is "taking" happiness.

These examples of self-reliance and nongovernmental solutions to problems raise the level of this emotionally predictable film to one that is philosophically satisfying — and well worth seeing.


Editor's Note: Review of "Soul Surfer," directed by Sean McNamara. Sony Pictures Entertainment, 2011, 106 minutes.



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How to Hunt RINOs

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A valuable lesson in how to purge the Republican party of big spenders of other people's money (aka RINOs, “Republicans in Name Only”) has been taught to us all by the voters in Miami-Dade County, Florida. They just voted to recall their mayor, one Carlos Alvarez, RINO extraordinaire.

Alvarez had been reelected in 2008 by a large majority. What caused the recent shift in voter sentiment? He pulled a typical RINO stunt after his reelection: he agreed to a plan that raised property taxes sharply and gave even more money to unionized public employees. He went along with raising the employees' pay and unfreezing their benefits, and covered it by jacking up property taxes on two-fifths of property owners by an average of 13%.

Alvarez had earlier agreed to hand over copious quantities of taxpayer cash to build a new baseball stadium for the Florida Marlins.

This struck the voters as profligate and insulting, considering that the jobless rate in the county is 12%. The property taxes used to reward the public employee unions, and the multimillionaire athletes and team owners, are coming out of the hides of people struggling to pay their food bills.

The recall campaign was funded in part by a wealthy businessman angered by reckless spending. Alvarez was voted out by 88% of the votes cast. Good riddance to a gross RINO.




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Dickie Eklund's Punch-Out!!

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Do we really need another rags-to-riches movie about boxing? Probably not. But filmmakers keep making them, and we keep watching them. Whether you like boxing or not, there is something cathartic about the hero's struggle itself. Like the best boxing movies, the latest one is more about the fighter than the fight, more about the family duking it out outside the ring than the boxing going on inside it. We can always use another film about family dynamics and the will to overcome obstacles, and The Fighter is one of those.

Dickie Eklund (Christian Bale) is the classic small-town hero, still basking in the glory of a quasi-victory 14 years earlier, in a bout where he knocked down Sugar Ray Leonard. Not knocked out, mind you, but knocked down. And some say that Sugar Ray actually tripped. Nevertheless, Dickie is called “The Pride of Lowell,” and as this film begins he is swaggering down the street in that Massachusetts town with an HBO film crew in tow, documenting his “comeback” as a trainer for his younger half-brother, Micky Ward (Mark Wahlberg).

Micky’s manager is his mother Alice (Melissa Leo), a hard-driving, chain-smoking, no-nonsense matriarch in tight pants and high heels. Leo is over-the-top perfect in this role, from the moment she prances into the gym, clipboard in hand, and asks the film crew, “Did you get that? Do you need me to do it again?”

Alice is the ultimate stage mother: pushy, strong, manipulative, and naively confident in her ability to manage her sons’ careers. “You gonna let her talk to me like that?” she rages at Micky when his girlfriend Charlene (Amy Adams) stands up to the rude and domineering matriarch. “I have done everything for you!” she screeches. She is also a classic enabler. Like many mothers who know how to give affection but don’t know how to parent, Alice sees no wrong in Dickie, and her constant sympathy and approval contribute to his sense of entitlement and its disastrous consequences.

Boxing movies are never really about the fights; they’re about the fighter.

The story of fraternal conflict is as old as Cain and Abel, Ishmael and Isaac, Esau and Jacob. In this case, two brothers vie for their parents’ love and attention, while trying to work out their own relationship. Dickie is clearly Alice’s favorite, but since he is virtually washed up as a boxer, Micky becomes the family’s new great hope — even his seven sleazy sisters are completely focused on the light they share from their brothers’ moments of fame. Dickie is the son mired in past glory, and Micky is the son trying to break away and rise above his toxic roots. But Micky is constantly pulled back by his love for his crazy family, and especially by his childlike love for his older brother.

As with many small-town heroes, adulthood has not been good to Dickie. He hangs out in bars and crack houses when he should be in the ring training and sparring with Micky. He shows up several hours late for training — while the HBO cameras keep rolling. He dives out the back window of his girlfriend’s house when he hears his mother coming, afraid of her disapproval. Nevertheless, throughout the first half of the film, Dickie is high on life, hopped up, and wide eyed. His backstreet swagger oozes confidence and joy.

Partway through the film, however, we realize that the documentary isn’t going to be about Dickie’s comeback as a fighter and trainer; it’s going to be HBO’s High on Crack Street: Lost Lives in Lowell (1995). Richard Farrell, who directed the HBO doc, plays a character much like himself in a cameo as a cameraman in this film. Of course, Dickie and his family don’t know the true topic of the documentary, and their moment of realization is devastating, performed with an understated emotion from each actor that is pitch-perfect. Farrell captured the tragedy of crack addiction in the real documentary, and Russell does it again with this film. (Note to self: never trust anyone with a movie camera, no matter what the person tells you is being filmed.)

Boxing movies are never really about the fights; they’re about the fighter, so this film as aptly titled. It’s not about one fighter, though, but about several — Dickie, the has-been boxer fighting to regain his former glory; Micky, the stronger brother fighting to break out of the other’s shadow; Charlene, the girlfriend fighting for respect; and Alice, the mother fighting for her family’s success. All of this takes place in a setting that has seen more rags than riches over the years, a place where boxing can be a pathway to money and status, but more often leads to broken hearts and broken bones.

The Fighter is a film about choice — about choosing to work hard, or not; choosing to be self-interested, or not; choosing the right friends, or not. Dickie’s choices land him in prison; Micky’s choices (when unencumbered by Dickie’s and Alice’s management) land him on a path to the welterweight championship. The scenes juxtaposing Micky’s training in the gym with Dickie’s sparring in the prison yard (and Alice’s chasing her husband with a frying pan) say a lot about choice and consequence in this film about fighting — it’s not just about beating someone up, but about fighting to survive.

This is also a film about love, and how to express it when the person you love is toxic; here, true love is expressed by knowing when someone is hurting, and reaching out to carry the load. This is a film about breaking away, but also about hanging on. How Dickie and Micky manage to do both makes The Fighter well worth watching, even though it might be called“justanother boxing film.”


Editor's Note: Review of "The Fighter," directed by David O. Russell. Paramount Pictures, 2010, 115 minutes.



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The Capital Gang

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For me “I’m a libertarian and I support the Washington Redskins” is right up there with “I’m from the government and I am here to help.” It makes my shoulders twitch and I feel creepy-crawlies run up and down my spine.

It all started in the run-up to Superbowl XVIII played at Tampa Stadium on January 22, 1984. The highly backed patrician ruling-class Redskins faced the underdog blue-collar working-class Raiders. Their respective QBs had some history as they had competed together for the highly prestigious Heisman Trophy back in 1970. Redskin QB (then with Notre Dame) Joe Theismann changed the way he pronounced his name from Thees-man to Thighs-man to make it rhyme with the name of the vaunted trophy in order to garner more votes. When Raider QB (then at Stanford) Jim Plunkett convincingly blew away Joe and also famous father Archie Manning (2,229 to 1,410 to 849), the Thighs-man camp infamously said that Jim had only won it because both his parents were blind. Please. What a classless act.

Happily the Raiders smashed the Redskins, leading 21–3 after just one quarter and scoring on special teams, defense, and offense. The final score was 38–9, and the record books had to be rewritten. Poetic justice?

One additional happy result of that total whipping was that the distinguished MVP scholar Charles Murray renamed his book of the mid-’80s, the book that shot him to stardom. As he recounts on pages xiii and xiv of the tenth anniversary edition, the working title had been F****** Over The Poor — The Missionary Position. Then it became Sliding Backward, but while he was watching the sad sack ‘Skins go nowhere late that Sunday, the title Losing Ground was born. Some TV commentator probably said something such as “the ‘Skins lose yet more ground to the Raiders,” and a light went on in Murray’s head.

There is only one good reason for the continued existence of the Landover Looters, and it is simply this: every single time they lose, absenteeism within the federal government soars the following Monday.

Eighteen months later I moved from California to northern Virginia and wall to wall, front to back, ceiling to floor ‘Skins fandom. There was no soccer (DC United) and no baseball (Nationals) and the basketball (Bullets) and ice hockey (Capitals) barely registered on the local sports radar screen. All that these rent-seeking, tax-guzzling federal employees and their hangers on cared about was the Redskins. Forget the country. They were totally nuts, completely besotted. There was a 30-year wait for season tickets and probably still is. People had to die before you could advance up the list. And it was all so PC that when the gun death-rate in DC hit record levels the Bullets had to be renamed and chose to be the Wizards.

In defense of all the other pro sport teams named Washington or DC, at least they all play there. The so-called Washington Redskins play in Landover MD and train in Ashburn VA. One wonders how many of the players and staff live in DC and how many in the suburbs or even further out.

I am curious as to why all five major sports leagues have to have a DC area franchise. Surely this cannot be connected to the special status that sports leagues enjoy under federal regulations.

There are large echoes here of the equally despised British soccer team Manchester United (fondly known in Manchester itself as “the scum”) which regularly sits atop the English Premier League. It plays in a city called Stretford, and its players live in the next door, very tony county of Cheshire rather than more downmarket Lancashire.

Hence the joke, How many soccer clubs are there in Manchester? Two: Manchester City and Manchester City Reserves. And hence the sign at the Manchester city line when Carlos Tevez signed to leave United for City: Welcome to Manchester.

The name refers to a criminal act of destruction of private property, deception, and sleight of hand; commemorating an attempt to point the finger of a crime falsely at a minority.

Common sense surely dictates that just as Manchester United should be renamed Stretford United so the Washington Redskins should become the Landover Redskins or perhaps the Landover Looters, to reflect the dominant local industry. It is simply dishonest to trade the way they do. They are living a lie.

But why is the team called the Redskins in the first place? What has the swamp of Washington got to do with Native Americans other than as a source of subsidy and special treatment? The answer is that the franchise started in Boston, Mass., as in the place where white patriots dressed up as Native Americans and chucked all that tea overboard. So the name refers to a criminal act of destruction of private property, deception, and sleight of hand; the name commemorates an attempt to point the finger of a crime falsely at a minority, an attempt to unleash the might of the British Army on peaceful natives. It really is disgraceful.

Speaking of minorities, these ‘Skins so beloved by Federal bureaucrats were the very last team in the NFL to integrate, and they did so with great reluctance and in a pretty surly, bad tempered way. The suspicion is that they did so only because the Department of the Interior owned their then stadium (typical) and the Kennedy administration was not impressed at seeing a non-integrated team in the nation’s capital — not really Camelot!

There are sports bars in the DC region with affiliations other than the ‘Skins, but they are nearly as rare as hens’ teeth. I used to frequent a Steelers bar with my friend Father Jack out toward Dulles on fall Sunday afternoons, until the BATF hit it. “Hands on the table — don’t reach for anything, not even your cutlery — don’t make our day.” I am sure the BATF agents were all ‘Skins fans.

The result is a cloying, all pervading, overarching pro-Redskins atmosphere that is not healthy. I recall taking elder son Miles to pre-K one Monday morning in say 1986; he was proudly wearing his brand new Dallas Cowboys shirt, a gift from Uncle Leonard. A female teacher stopped us in the corridor:

Teacher, somewhat condescendingly and pointing at said shirt: “Mr. Blundell, don’t you know this is Redskins country?”

Blundell in his best posh British accent: “Oh I am terribly sorry. I thought the Cowboys were America’s Team!”

If this were a comic strip, the next panel would show a woman with a screwed up face looking at the heavens, elbows stuck firmly into her ribs and clenched fists raised by her jaw, with a thought bubble reading “Argh! *&#%@?+^#*&.”

So as the population of the Swamp changes every election cycle, waves of well-meaning (I am being charitable) men and women, true sports fans who support good honest teams that play in privately owned stadiums, sweep in and are corrupted into supporting the Redskins. You can’t chat at the water cooler or over coffee or at lunch unless you are in the Skindom. It is so sad, but then Washington believes in monopolies such as currency issuance, taxation, and regulation.

When good internationally proven liberty-minded folk such as me confront these so-called libertarian Redskins we receive really mealy-mouthed responses, typical of which is “Oh, when I think of Washington I think of the person not the place!” Right! These people are confused and confusing, embarrassed and embarrassing, and not to be trusted until they go through therapy.

There is only one good reason for the continued existence of the Landover Looters, and it is simply this: every single time they lose, which is well over 50% recently, absenteeism within the Federal government soars the following Monday. This can only be a good thing.

But there is a solution for the Landover Looters problem. The team should move to Syracuse in upstate New York and become the Syracuse “Washington’s Redskins” with the nickname of the “Waistcoats.” Let me explain. George Washington signed a treaty with the Oneida Nation in that area to fight the Brits. So to the extent that Washington Redskins exist free of deceit, capture, and vainglory they are in the Syracuse-Finger Lakes region.

Why Waistcoats? Because Washington wore them and it’s probably a better nickname than “the big girls’ blouses,” which is what I call “libertarians” who support the Landover Looters.




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