Health-care law doomed! ... Oh, wait

This morning's NY Times headline screamed: "HEALTH LAW STANDS."

Yowzer.

I immediately thought of Jeffrey Toobin. So did CNN's Howie Kutz. He wrote today: "During the Supreme Court’s oral arguments over Obamacare in March, CNN’s legal analyst Jeffrey Toobin famously said this: 'This was a train wreck for the Obama administration. This law looks like it’s going to be struck down. All of the predictions, including mine, that the justices would not have a problem with this law were wrong.' "

Then, inserting the shiv, Kurtz added: "Um, make that wrong twice."

In March, the talking heads confidently pronounced that Obamacare -- and by implication, Obama -- was doomed. It's a familar refrain. This same bunch predicted the landmark law would never pass Congress in 2009 -- until it did. At the conclusion of the Court's oral arguments in March, the media pressed President Obama for his take. Obama simply said, "I'm confident the Court will uphold the law." I remember thinking, "Hmm ... what did (former constitutional law) Professor Obama know that the political media didn't?" Quite a bit, it turns out.

For some reason, the media and Mr. Obama's political opponents keep misjudging him. They keep ignoring the ever-growing pile of facts in evidence. Today's landmark ruling just underlines a point I've been making since the 2008 election: Underestimate this guy at your peril. He has a bad habit of, you know, winning. Oh, and Mr. Romney? You can now fuggettaboud running against Obamacare. That piece has just been knocked off the chess board. Funny how that happened, huh?

Or as the Road Runner would put it: "Beep-beep."

Just about everybody is wrong about SB1070

SO WHATEVER happened to the Age of Reason? It would help, for example, if folks actually read the Supreme Court's SB1070 opinion -- you know, BEFORE rendering an opinion about it. But we're on deadline, the press said. So in its best rendition of yellow journalism yet, it simply declared that both sides had won. SB1070 proponents say they scored an EPIC victory. They boast that the heart of the law -- the right to question suspected illegal aliens if held for unrelated infractions (like speeding) -- has been ruled constitutional. Hypothetically, Arizona can finally enforce its "papers please" law. But the average cop doesn't speak hypothetical. Neither does the federal government. And neither is much interested in prosecuting (or stemming the "tide" of) housemaids and gardeners. So catch-and-release is what law enforcement will amount to. The actual bad guys -- drug dealers, pimps and gunrunners -- don't exceed the I-10 speed limit and keep to the shadows. SB1070 opponents are dancing in the end zone, too. They say the law has been gutted and rendered meaningless. They're not wrong (3 of the 4 provisions were tossed out by the Supremes). But the ruling still leaves the door open for racial profiling and other abuses by overzealous enforcers. SCOTUS got it wrong, too. It rationalized Arizona's right to go all Gestapo on brown people by opining that there's no evidence states will abuse this power. Yes, and hope springs eternal. "Innocent until proven guilty" is a fine ideal. But is it wise jurisprudence given the stakes? Comprehensive immigration reform is the only way out of this mess. The sooner, the better.

The day Kennedy was shot

I updated my father's genealogical timeline on Ancestry.com the other day, adding the traumatic event of JFK's assassination to give it context.

 For me, a third grader in Los Angeles, 22 Nov 1963 began like any other day.

Weather-wise, too, it was classically L.A.: Hazy blue skies (one part high clouds, two parts smog), pleasantly warm, a soft marine breeze from the west. No sweaters, jackets or batteries required.

Being little more than a skinny bean sprout, the world at large – the one beyond school, play, cartoons, and our dog Trixie – was not yet my concern. I was an eager but empty vessel waiting to be filled with practical knowledge and, someday, the wisdom gleaned from the relentless vagaries of humankind. I was unaware that its latest vagary was unfolding in a placed called Dallas. In that, at least, I was not alone.

When the recess bell rang that Friday morning, getting to the playground sock-ball courts first was my top priority. Running to my goal, I unleashed a breathless whoop when I succeeded (ostentatious fist-pumping like Tiger Woods – who wouldn’t be born until 1975 – had yet to be invented). Then, maybe 15 minutes later, my world shifted from its normal, late morning course. I began to hear whimpering. It was emanating from the outdoor lunch tables. A number of the older girls were weeping. Was someone hurt? Teachers had suddenly clumped together along the edges of the schoolyard’s black-top. They were urgently whispering to each other, some nervously covering their open mouths with both hands. Some of them, too, had moist red eyes. What, I wondered absently, had happened? Still, many other kids were playing and doing what kids do without a care in the world. And the bright California sun sat contently overhead. Not comprehending, I inwardly shrugged as I took in this kaleidoscope of contrasting images.

Then the bell rang again, abruptly ending recess, and we filed back into our classrooms.

There may have been an announcement over the PA system. My teacher, Mrs. Buchanan, probably passed on the solemn news to us as we sat facing her, blank-faced at our little desks. I simply don't remember. I do remember going home early, walking up the gentle hill of San Pedro Street, jumping over the familiar cracks on the sidewalk, but noticing an uncharacteristic stillness at the houses along my path. I didn’t know it then, of course, but my school, like most in southern California, had shut down almost immediately as word spread. Mom was not surprised to see me. She knew.

At the family dinner table later that evening, I recall my father intently watching the news. Having just gotten home, he was still wearing his royal blue work shirt, the one with the orange “AA” (American Airlines) patch above one pocket. Dad was a CBS man, so the anchor on the low-def, black & white TV screen had to have been Walter Cronkite. I would come to know “Uncle Walter” well in the coming tumults triggered by civil rights marches, riots, Vietnam, nightly body counts, and student protests at places like Kent State. I vaguely recall Dad sighing in resignation, and making a kind remark about Mr. Kennedy. I knew was our president. JFK was an admired figure in our staunchly Democratic household. Something bad had occurred, but my child-mind could not yet grasp its gravity. Besides, I was busy patting Trixie, our German Sheppard, who was quietly panting her dog-smile below the overhanging table cloth.

After dinner, I went off to play – and onward to finish living my boyhood. Only many years later did I connect the dots and have that oh-my-god epiphany. Only then did I realize I had been part of a greater American family whose members could recall exactly where they were on the day Kennedy was shot. Like them, I had borne witness to a shocking tragedy, one with the power to knock the breath out of me even years after the fact.

Our 35th President, of course, was assassinated at 12:30 p.m. Central Time (10:30 a.m. at my playground) on that black November Friday in Dealey Plaza. It explained the crying girls, the anxious whispers, the pained look on Mrs. Buchanan face, my dad’s dismay at the somber words coming from Mr. Cronkite, and the hush that seemingly enveloped my little world along San Pedro Street.

But that's the way it was in 1963, to paraphrase Cronkite's trademark phrase. It was momentous history, the day Kennedy died, as witnessed through one child’s eyes in L.A.

Men and their cars

My daddy drove a Hudson.

And not any Hudson, mind you. Father drove a 1949 Hudson Commodore 6 Sedan. In the slang of the times, it was truly the Cat's Meow.

You may have trouble picturing this now classic automobile. Think "Driving Miss Daisy," the 1989 movie starring Morgan Freeman and Jessica Tandy. The car Freeman drove in the film was a Hudson Commodore (pictured above). Dad's car was identical to it. Fortunately, I own an old black & white photograph of my then 23-year-old father posing beside his brand new prize on a Chicago South Side street. You’d need a big ruler to measure the length of the grin on my dad’s beaming face. Turtleneck-clad and pencil-mustached, he sported a fedora in the photo. The gleaming Hudson sported 1949 Illinois license plate "1700 202".

Dad always dreamed of buying a Cadillac. But he never did. A practical family man, he could never quite justify the cost of owning one -- even when he and my mother became reasonably secure empty-nesters. But at least he had once owned a Hudson Commodore. Talk about a "dame magnet." In 1949 he was courting my mother (who could have given 1940s actress Dorothy Dandridge a run for her money in the beauty department; mom is on the left in the photo below). I wonder if that Hudson had anything to do with him closing the deal (they married in 1950 and stayed that way for over 50 years).

As the curtain fell on the 1950s, dad found himself saddled with three kids and a wife to feed. There were few two-income families in the Mad Men Era. The Hudson, alas, had to go. Enter car number 2: The iconic 1960 Rambler station wagon, complete with roof rack and fins. When he purchased it, the car's blue color probably matched dad's unconscious mood. For it was a reminder that his freewheeling days as a man-about-town were gone for good. (Ladies, think of it this way: You end up buying that nice pair of sensible pumps because it's the right thing to do. But what you really want are those hot, black stilettos, right?)

When the family migrated to southern California in late 1961, mom and my siblings flew to the Golden State. Dad and I drove the 4-door Rambler cross-country to Los Angeles via the old Route 66. A memorable trip, it was. As dad’s life progressed, other cars -- Buicks, Chryslers and even a yellow Ford Pinto for mom -- came and went in succession. But the Hudson Commodore had to have remained special to him.

I know that special feeling. When I turned 23 myself, as life would have it, I bought a screaming-red Triumph TR7. It was called "The Wedge." And we’re talking 0 to 90 in six seconds, baby. Like all rebellious teens, I swore I’d never become my father. But let’s face it, that hot TR-7 was my version of his Hudson. Dad was duly impressed, too. When the damn thing would start (always an iffy proposition with Triumph sports cars), it was a dream to drive. And talk about a “chick magnet.” As cars go, it was my first love. Like father, like son -- inevitably.

(Historic Sidebar: The manufacturer of dad’s Rambler, American Motors, was headed at the time by one George W. Romney -- yes, Mitt Romney's father -- before he entered politics. Rich is the generational irony.)

The Day the (CD) Music Died

Per the NY Times, 20-year-old NPR Emily White reported that despite being “an avid music listener" and collector of 11,000 digital songs for her iTunes library, "she has bought only 15 CDs in her life." Hmm.

'Notes from Underground' Reconsidered

As Andrew Sullivan noted, David Denby thinks Dostoevsky's classic, Notes from Underground, still kicks us in the gut:

"Predictors of human behavior, as the underground man says, generally assume we will act in our own best interests. But do we? The same question might be asked today, when "rational-choice theory" is still a predictive model for economists and sociologists and many others. When working-class whites vote for Republican policies that will further reduce their economic power—are they voting in their best interests? What about wealthy liberals in favor of higher taxes on the rich? Do people making terrible life choices—say, poor women having children with unreliable men—act in their best interests? Do they calculate at all? What if our own interest, as we construe it, consists of refusing what others want of us? That motive can’t be measured. It can’t even be known, except by novelists like Dostoevsky. Reason is only one part of our temperament, the underground man says. Individualism as a value includes the right to screw yourself up."

Why are we here?

Evolutionary biologist Ernst Mayr: “Nothing demonstrates the improbability of high intelligence better than the 50 billion earthly species that failed to achieve it.” He's right. Um, hmm ...

Just because

No commentary. This is just a nice photo of the president by Getty's Chip Somodevilla.

Ray Bradbury, 1920–2012

The author of Fahrenheit 451 lived by a simple credo: “Jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.”

Why is Venus laughing at us?

Every TV news outlet and newspaper from here to Timbuktu is promoting the "Transit of Venus" as a once-in-a-lifetime celestial event -- if, that is, you missed it in 2004 like me and everyone I know. Per Wikipedia, the Venusian transit occurs once a century in pairs separated by an interval of eight years. Part deux is happening today and tomorrow. The next event is scheduled for 2117. Ergo: "Millions will look skyward as Venus crosses the Sun on June 5 for the last time more than 100 years," gushed Astronomers Without Borders. Millions. NASA has a Google Maps mashup to search for "transit" events in your area. And if you're completely around the bend, there's even an app for the flyby. You, too, can "participate in a modern-day experiment to recreate the heady days of scientific exploration," said Wired magazine. Among other things, the app will help you "calculate the size of the solar system." Hey, that's almost better than sex, right? So is the world waiting with bated breath for this "chance of a lifetime" beginning at 3 p.m. PDT? Of course not. Despite the media hawking, it's unlikely the average Joe or Jane has even heard of the pending solar transit. It's a safe bet that millions of eyes will not be cast sunward at the appointed time. And I admit to a certain dyspeptic pleasure in that knowledge. Rather than simply reporting that this event is a boon to scientists probing the makeup of exoplanets orbiting distant stars, CNN et al has turned it into a media circus for ratings. Remember the hype over the "supermoon" last month, a celestial event that was anything but super? Welcome back to the future. Venus, the Roman goddess of love and beauty, must be laughing. And for good reason.

It's all good

In a shameless bid for free publicity, Ragan's PR Daily (the corporate flacks of Lawrence Ragan Communications Inc) has a list of "the decade’s most irritating words and phrases" that is making the rounds on the web today. Ragan nominates: It is what it is, Man cave, Amazing, Baby bump, Awesome, Whatever, Literally (pronounced “LIT-rally” ), Think outside the box, It’s all good, Process, Just a thought, and Virtual. In my book, "man cave" is probably the most egregious. To Ragan's list, I'd add "not so much", "cool" (which is waaaay overused), and the irritatingly ubiquitous "so" when a speaker uses the word to start a statement or soliloquy. It drives me crazy. The principal perpetrators are techies, academics, hipsters and (increasingly) political talking heads. Chalk it up to the lemming factor in the age of digital mass media.

Still crazy after all these years

This photo is making the rounds on the liberal blogs so they can snark and throw rocks at it. I gather that's more fun than serious political discourse. The thing is, crazy people (a demographic to whom Mr. Herndon possibly belongs) have always run for office. The difference today is that more of these folks seem to be winning. But could it be that the constant liberal mocking motivates enraged conservatives to turn out in greater numbers at the voting booth to elect the Johnny Herndons of the world? Just sayin'.

Click me, baby

LA Times writer David Horsey is convinced that online newspapers will be just fine -- if they can avoid becoming "click whores." He writes: "Sure, any fool can get a lot of page views by running photos of cute kittens, funny dogs, hot cheerleaders and bosomy models in bikinis. It might bring in a lot of money. It might be read all over. But it would not be a newspaper.” Ditto for serious, digitized magazines, presumably. But the allure of prostituting for page views is strong. Not convinced? I give you this tweet from The Atlantic Wire, a digital subset of the venerable Atlantic magazine: "Introducing Politwoops, the place to find awkward tweets deleted by politicians (http://theatln.tc/JAndCO)." Egads, talk about opening the digital kimono. Let's face it: The digital press wants to "love you long time," and they clearly can't help themselves.

Hayes’s Heroes

Over the Memorial Day weekend, liberal commentator Chris Hayes suddenly found himself inside a proverbial hurt locker for expressing a nuanced opinion about America's overuse of the word "hero." While clearly stating that he meant no disrespect to the troops, Hayes opined: "I feel ... uncomfortable, about the word because it seems to me that it is so rhetorically proximate to justifications for more war" and that "we marshal this word in a way that is problematic." He's not wrong. But as Peter Beinart noted today, the "right-wing jingosphere responded [to Hayes] with the kind of analysis you’d expect to read on a bathroom wall." Hayes was called everything from "a parasite" to a fop whose "right to menstruate” was being protected by the very soldiers he deigns not to call heroes. Vile stuff. It's worth noting that the pundits hating on Hayes the loudest have something in common with him. None have ever worn a military uniform. If they had, they'd know that soldiers and marines do not consider themselves heroes or call each other such. As Esquire writer Stephen Marche rightly observed about the military mindset: "To be a hero is to do the heroic, to reach above the call of duty. The men and women returning this year are just less selfish and privileged than everybody else. They have done their job. In a previous era we would call them something else — normal Americans." Exactly.

(Pictured Above: Sgt. Alvin C. York, one of the most decorated American soldiers of World War I and the epitome of heroism.)

Memorial Day

SUNLIGHT STRIKING a snowy ridge in springtime is a passing glory that ultimately results in barren rock. It is not unlike the sad reality that soldiers who die in battle soon melt from the memory of those who benefit from their sacrifice. That is the irony of war and its tragedy. It is therefore pointless to lament the fact that, for most of us, Memorial Day has little to do with commemorating those who have perished in our wars, some 1.3 million souls since 1775. For in the end, American soldiers have died down the centuries so that we, the current generation, can have the luxury of grilling backyard steaks or seeking mattress sales while being blissfully unconscious of the reasons why we can. It is a privilege purchased in blood. Sadly, two of its latest buyers -- Marine Cpl. Keaton Coffey, 22, of Boring, Ore. and Army Spc. Vilmar Hernandez, 21, of Salinas, Calif. -- were both killed in Afghanistan only days ago. They are worthy of honoring this day. When, at long last, will we as a people become worthy again of deserving of the sacrifice being made on our behalf?

Why is Washington broken?

David Frum explains:

Is Battlefield Romney empty?

Last year, I speculated about the seeming emptiness of Mitt Romney's inner core ("Romney: A mirror with no reflection"). To egregiously quote myself, "Sometimes one can glimpse the inner man by perusing his bookshelf." Now that Romney is the de facto Republican nominee, it is worth revisiting. Mitt's favorite novel is "Battlefield Earth," the universally panned tome by Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard. Besides the Bible (Romney's favorite book), let's hope there are other books on that shelf, too. Science fiction magazine Analog criticized Battlefield as "a wish-fulfillment fantasy wholly populated by the most one-dimensional of cardboard characters." Per Wikipedia, sci-fi critic David Langford trashed the novel's "plot, style and scientific implausibilities" and concluded: "From this, Battlefield may sound almost worth looking at for its sheer laughable badness. No. It's dreadful and tedious beyond endurance". Ouch. To be fair, acclaimed sci-fi author Robert Heinlein called Battlefield "a terrfific story." And Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction praised the book as a "rather good, fast-paced, often fascinating SF adventure yarn." But one freelance writer probably captured the novel best: "If you’re just looking for a good roller coaster of a ride without any depth and without learning anything new whatsoever, pick up Battlefield Earth." With a little tinkering, those words might well summerize Mr. Romney, too. You can't judge a book (or Mr. Romney) by its cover. But you can by its content -- especially if, as Romney's book pick suggests, there's nothing there.

Laughing Man

Per Wikipedia, Garry Wills (born 1934) is "a prolific Pulitzer Prize-winning author, journalist, and historian." He's written some 40 books and is a frequent reviewer for the New York Review of Books. He's a veritable Renaissance Man and one of my favorite writers.

And yet, even Wills is reduced to analyzing the latest shiny object in front of the political press: Mitt Romney's laugh. In his latest piece for NYR ("Why is this man laughing?"), Wills writes:

"Everyone has noticed by now the non-laugh laugh of Mitt Romney, a kind of half-stifled barking. But what does it mean? It is blurted out as abruptly as it is broken off. Is it a kind of punctuation, part comma, part full stop, part interrogatory mark? What, if anything, is it trying to convey? Why does it seem more like coughing or burping than laughter?"

Wills speculates that Romney might be a living example of Dostoyevsky’s “Idiot.” Fine. Except we all know that Romney's cackle is utterly meaningless. It is not a window into his soul -- no matter how much pundits want it to be. What's worse, few (if any) normally smart observers seem aware that they're spinning nonsense. See Andrew Sullivan here and Paul Walden here. Like more than a few politicians, Romney is oddly awkward on the public stage. The laugh-like sound he emits in response to humor is a reflection of this maladroitness. Period. Wills' piece is still worth reading (he makes an intriguing point or two) given his erudition. But the endless discourse about Romney's jocosity speaks volumes about the current state of political journalism. You might say it's laughable.

Facebooked

Kevin Drum puts the Facebook IPO into perspective: "The right way to think about IPOs doesn't really have much to do with the fundamentals of the company itself. Who cares if Facebook is going to be either (a) a flop or (b) the biggest company in the galaxy five years from now? All you really care about is Facebook's stock price the day after the IPO. Or, at most, a few months after the IPO. What you care about is whether other people are enthusiastic about Facebook. That's it. It's purely an exercise in forecasting the madness of crowds." By the way, as of 4pm eastern standard time, Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg (age 28) is worth $20 billion. That's just over $714 million for each year Zuckerberg has been alive.

Shameless, and proud of it

Slate made me laugh out loud this afternoon from its sheer shamelessness. They're launching "SurveyMonkey," a monthly poll between now and November that will survey "people’s attitudes toward the presidential candidates—and how they are shifting." You know, in real time. Slate admits that this is not a scientific poll. "We are capturing a snapshot, not running a lab experiment," the editors said. So if the polling results are essentially meaningless, what is the point of SurveyMonkey? Well, there isn't any -- aside from its brazen role as pageview bait. When Alexis de Tocqueville observed that "the power of the periodical press is second only to that of the people," SurveyMonkey was not what he had in mind.

Last Dance

IT'S HARD to believe Donna Summers, the disco diva who ruled the 70s, is dead. And she was 63, too? How could that be? I mean, weren't the 1970s, like, yesterday? In fact, LaDonna Adrian Gaines, Summer's real name, was born in 1948 in Boston. And her breakout hit, “Love to Love You Baby,” debuted 37 years ago in 1975. For those of us of a certain age, the word "yikes" comes to mind. On the other hand, we who were of dating age at the time could partake in the fruits of springtide with the abandon of Caligula as Summer's sultry vocals pulsated in the background everywhere. Remember, this brief epoch was pre-HIV and pre-Girls (the culmination of our cultural angst/panic since the 80s). The polyester and the disco balls were more than worth the price of admission. Trust me, if you weren't there, you missed it. RIP, LaDonna.

'For beauty, starv'd with her severity'

Yes, yes -- Rebekah Brooks, "a close confidante of Rupert Murdoch, was charged on Tuesday with interfering with a police investigation into a phone hacking scandal that has rocked the tycoon's empire," as Reuters reports breathlessly. But I find myself transfixed by her Edwardian Era looks. Only a corset or bodice topped with an embarrassment of jewels is missing from the imagery of this classical, fiery-haired English woman.

Naturally, the words of Romeo spring to mind:

She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;
For beauty, starv'd with her severity,
Cuts beauty off from all posterity.
She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair,
To merit bliss by making me despair.

Your 15 minutes are up, baby

Charles Darwin would not be surprised that a new American species is evolving amid our celebrity-mad pop culture. Homo domesticus kardashia, as the famed naturalist might call it, is drawn to fame like moths to light. When exposed to even a minute of fame, these curious hominids will do anything to stay in the limelight. They'll cling to fame even after the last dog dies. Indeed, so deep is the fervor, they'll chase it round a Mevillian Maelstrom and "round perdition's flames" before they give it up. Which brings me to Sarah Tressler, the semi-famous stripper-reporter formerly of the Houston Chronicle. The appellation "stripper-reporter" is a dead giveaway for homo domesticus kardashia. (By the way, guys in Houston, take a long look into those big, seductive, manic eyes. They spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e. Unless you're into the girlfriend-from-hell type, don't even think it.) Apparently, Ms. Tressler is suing the Chronicle for her firing, claiming gender discrimination. Lemme get this straight. Are we to seriously believe that the Chronicle would not have fired a male reporter upon discovering he moonlighted as a Chippendales hip-grinder? Really? For the love of Mike, Ms. Tressler, it truly is time to get off the stage -- at least the one not featuring a stripper pole.

Bangkok truth

I was wondering which journalist would muster the courage to say it publicly. Well, it's Matt Taibbi of Rolling Stone. On the presidential election, he writes:

The people who work for the wire services and the news networks are physically incapable of writing sentences like, "This election is even more over than the Knicks-Heat series." They are required, if not by law then by neurological reflex, to describe every presidential campaign as "fierce" and "drawn-out" and "hotly-contested." But this campaign, relatively speaking, will not be fierce or hotly contested. Instead it'll be disappointing, embarrassing, and over very quickly, like a hand job in a Bangkok bathhouse. And everybody knows it.

I could be wrong, flat wrong, but I've long held this view -- minus the colorful Bangkok "hand job" analogy. Heh.

Burning the GOP house down to save it?

A Tea Party-backed candidate you've never heard of has driven Sen. Richard Lugar (R-Ind.) from office. Lugar is a member of the moderate conservative species being blasted to extinction like the buffalo on the Great Plains of American politics. A while ago, former Sen. John Danforth (R-Mo.) said, "If Dick Lugar, having served five terms in the U.S. Senate and being the most respected person in the Senate and the leading authority on foreign policy, is seriously challenged by anybody in the Republican Party, we have gone so far overboard that we are beyond redemption." Yesterday, Lugar lost his reelection bid in Indiana's GOP primary by 20 points. Conclusion: The GOP is beyond redemption. But I hold the minority view that before the GOP can reverse its march on the Road to Perdition, it first has to burn its own house down. Lugar's demise is the latest bucket of gasoline being thrown on that fire.