The Annual Ditty 2017

On the first day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
A Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the second day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the third day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
3 French Legs
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the fourth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
4 Flinching Flakes
3 French Legs
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the fifth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
5 Golden Tees
4 Flinching Flakes
3 French Legs
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the sixth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
6 Pence a Praying
5 Golden Tees
4 Flinching Flakes
3 French Legs
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the seventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
7 Seans a Swooning
6 Pence a Praying
5 Golden Tees
4 Flinching Flakes
3 French Legs
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the eighth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
8 Moores a Mourning
7 Seans a Swooning
6 Pence a Praying
5 Golden Tees
4 Flinching Flakes
3 French Legs
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the ninth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
9 Moguls Ogling
8 Moores a Mourning
7 Seans a Swooning
6 Pence a Praying
5 Golden Tees
4 Flinching Flakes
3 French Legs
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the tenth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
10 Ryans Reaping
9 Moguls Ogling
8 Moores a Mourning
7 Seans a Swooning
6 Pence a Praying
5 Golden Tees
4 Flinching Flakes
3 French Legs
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the eleventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
11 Sanders Shrilling

10 Ryans Reaping
9 Moguls Ogling
8 Moores a Mourning
7 Seans a Swooning
6 Pence a Praying
5 Golden Tees
4 Flinching Flakes
3 French Legs
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free

On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
12 Muellers Mulling

11 Sanders Shrilling
10 Ryans Reaping
9 Moguls Ogling
8 Moores a Mourning
7 Seans a Swooning
6 Pence a Praying
5 Golden Tees
4 Flinching Flakes
3 French Legs
2 Tiny Thumbs
and a Tweet That Was Truly Trump Free


Merry and Happy to all our Friends

Michael 

Ditties, Dirges, and Duels On 3Quarks

I have a problem. Each December I write a political New Year's ditty to send to friends and family. I've had a good time with them, even when the news (at least from my perspective) is less than cheery. I get to crib shamelessly from great authors of the past, ruin perfectly good metre with my tuneless ear, and throw in some real groaners. My "Mitchie at the Bat" is considered a classic of the genre, and even last year's dirge-y "Wreck of the Hillary C" induced a small avalanche of comments from the similarly agonized.

But I'm blocked. Eleven months of government by cattle-prod has depleted my mirth supply, so, in a last-minute Hail Mary, I am going to recharge by pivoting to a dispassionate discourse about something we are all passionate about—money. Not Bitcoin, or something esoteric that's way above my humble understanding, but plain old cash—the real stuff, actual specie, as in old coins.

I happen to have a few. Not many, and they don't have much in the way of numismatic value, but they are a treasure trove of history, and history cheers me up. About a dozen assorted coins dating from the late 18th Century to 1892, all from a worn-out purse my grandmother found in her basement catacombs. Among them were some two-cent pieces from the 1860s, a half-dime, an 1803 large penny, a commemorative coin from the Columbian Exposition, and an absolutely exquisite 1826 Capped Bust half-dollar.

To a junkie like me (for history, not necessarily for coins) they are all wonderful. Collectively, they tell a story that starts with 16 states and ends with 44, of powdered wigs and multi-hour speechifying, several wars, horses and stagecoaches, cotton pickers and cotton merchants, the creation of whole new cities out of swamp, and the building of an empire (by whatever means necessary) that stretched across the continent.

I was particularly lucky to have that 1826 half because, while it might have been the least rare, it had more stories to tell than I originally anticipated. It was in unusually good condition, well struck (perhaps early in the year, when the dies were still new) and with a faint patina that enhanced its beauty. Today's pocket change doesn't have much personality, but this half-dollar had elegance and character and craft, and even a little provenance to intrigue. This half had something to say. The design was by John Reich, a German immigrant who arrived here in 1800 (the model was supposedly his "fat German Mistress"). His work was noticed by Thomas Jefferson, who arranged for the US Mint to hire him as an assistant to the Engraver…but first they had to redeem his bond--because Reich came here as a bondsman, owing twenty guineas, to be paid off by working for $1 per week, for two years, for a Philadelphia engraver. Beyond that rather stark reminder that the unalienable rights in the Declaration of Independence allowed for a few business transactions, it also turns out that 1826 was a rather unexpectedly significant year, one that not only had the poetic passings of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson (both on July 4, the 50th Anniversary of the ratification of the Declaration), but a spicy brew of political chaos which included a duel of honor that might have, but didn't, alter the course of American History.

As anyone of us who was around in 2008 can attest to, it's amazing how quickly things can change in politics. Things were going so well in James Monroe's first term that, in 1820, he ran unopposed for a second. But by the 1824 Election, his Era of Good Feelings had run its course. The only viable political party, the Democratic-Republican party, was riven with internal disagreements, and, in what had to be the oddest Presidential contest in American history, four candidates, all nominally Democratic-Republican, ran against one another. Three were giants—John Quincy Adams, Andrew Jackson, and Henry Clay. The fourth, William Crawford of Georgia (former Secretary of War and sitting Secretary of the Treasury), was formidable in his own right, but had suffered a serious stroke in 1823. The four split the popular and Electoral College vote along ideological and regional lines. Although Jackson clearly led in both, he was unable to muster enough Electors, and, as per the 12th Amendment, the race was thrown into the House of Representatives, where each State was given just one vote. The 12th also stipulated that only three contestants could advance to the next round, which knocked out Clay, who had more popular votes than Crawford, but four fewer Electoral Votes. Clay was no fan of Jackson (their disagreements dated back to Jackson's capture of Pensacola in 1818), and he was the preeminent dealmaker in Washington. He threw his support to Adams, thus handing him the victory. Whispers (loud whispers) began that Adams and Clay had made a behind-the-scenes agreement (the "Corrupt Bargain"), with Clay trading his votes in return for the job of Secretary of State.
Whether or not there really was a corrupt bargain (and historians are split on this, because Clay also had very good policy reasons for  backing Adams), the result irrevocably splintered the Democratic-Republican Party. To compound the problem, angry men on both sides kept at the hammer and tongs, and Jackson, in particular, was not exactly the forgiving type. The Era of Sharp Elbows and Outraged Egos had begun, and the primary battleground was in Washington.

There, the rules for combat were a little idiosyncratic. In the Senate, for example, you could say just about anything at all...including what would in other contexts be seen as a serious personal insult, so long as you were doing it in an official capacity—like naming a post office. But outside the boundaries of official duty, even far more temperate language might discharge the hair-trigger of honor, with occasionally messy results. A man's gotta be a man.

Enter John Randolph of Roanoke, Senator from Virginia, verbal incendiary. As a Randolph (a family which included Thomas Jefferson, John Marshall, Light Horse Harry Lee, and Robert E. Lee, and traced its ancestry back to the actual Pocahontas), he was part of a power elite. He was also a man of undeniable talent who served in both the House and the Senate, and later as Ambassador to Russia. He had some genuine friendships, but generally was regarded as one of the meanest, nastiest guys around—the Ted Cruz of his day. He regularly tore into his opponents. On the appointment of Richard Rush as Secretary of the Treasury, he opined, "Never were abilities so much below mediocrity so well rewarded: no, not when Caligula's horse was made Consul." About Ben Hardin of Kentucky, "He is like a carving knife whetted on a brickbat."  And Edward Livingston, ''[L]ike a rotten mackerel in the moonlight, he both shines and stinks.''

It was perhaps inevitable that he clash with Henry Clay. Philosophically, they couldn't have been more different. Randolph was a man of the 18th Century—he once said, "I'm an aristocrat. I love justice and hate equality." Clay was of the West (the West, then being Kentucky, Missouri, Illinois)—he pushed for expansion, internal improvements, and a more open society where energy and intelligence would come to be the predicate for success. They had argued for years, but the resolution of the 1824 Election brought it to a boiling point. Randolph lit into Clay, not merely charging the "corrupt bargain," but that the combination "was of the Puritan and the blackleg," and adding Clay was "crucifying the Constitution and cheating at cards."

Them's fightin' words. Clay had to respond with a challenge. Official Washington worried, even Jackson's supporters. Randolph was considered both a crackpot and a crack shot. Clay was simply essential, at the peak of his intellectual power. He had already been the youngest Senator in American history, Speaker of the House three times, and instrumental, with Senators Daniel Webster of Massachusetts and John C. Calhoun of South Carolina, in brokering the 1820 Missouri Compromise (bitterly opposed by Randolph) to defuse the always-volatile slavery issue.

On April 8, 1826, John Randolph of Roanoke, Senator and Jackson supporter, and Henry Clay, Secretary of State, Adams supporter, and possibly corrupt bargainer and blackleg, met on the field of honor. Dueling was outlawed in some states, including Virginia, but, as the challenged, Randolph got to pick the grounds, and he insisted on the Virginia bank of the Potomac. As he represented Virginia in the Senate, if he were going to die, he wanted it to be on home soil. They fortified themselves (perhaps also with a beverage or two), brought their seconds and surgeons, and prepared for destiny. Randolph, displaying a little extra cunning, apparently also wore an oversized coat over his decidedly lean frame.

It was pistols at ten paces. What happened next may involve a little myth-making, but history records it as a series of acts of gallantry. There was a misfire, a permitted reload, and then both men's first shots missed. At this point, Thomas Hart Benton, Senator of Missouri, tried to stop it, but honor was still unsatisfied, so the two went on. Clay's second shot also missed, passing through Randolph's generously-sized cloak, and, by the code, he had to wait to receive Randolph's return fire. One wonders what might have been going through Randolph's mind, but in the event, he raised his pistol above his head, and fired into the air.

Clay ran to him, and grabbed his hand. "Mr. Randolph, are you hurt?" "No, Mr. Clay," replied Randolph, "but you owe me a new coat." "I am thankful the debt is no greater" replied Clay. Of the Clay-Randolph duel, Benton later said it was the "last high-toned affair" he ever witnessed.

Randolph returned to the Senate, then back to the House, and finally was appointed by President Jackson to be Ambassador to Russia. He left after a few months, in declining health exacerbated by heavy drinking and occasional dabbling in opium. He died in 1833, of tuberculosis that he may have contracted as an adolescent. According to his attending physician, his last thoughts were to be certain his slaves were freed. Fascinating coda for this most unpleasant of men—in his Will he wrote, "I give and bequeath to all my slaves their freedom, heartily regretting that I have ever been the owner of one."

Clay continued as Secretary of State, then went back to the Senate, ran for President twice more, in 1832 and 1844, helped broker a settlement to the Nullification Crisis in 1832, and, even more critically, the Compromise of 1850, which kept the Union together at a time of high tension between the slave and free states. He, too, died of tuberculosis, on June 29, 1852, and, like Randolph, freed all of his slaves on his death.

Clay was also the inspiration for another man of the West, a rather awkward and ugly lawyer with political ambitions himself, who organized a memorial tribute in Springfield, Illinois. He led a procession through the streets, ending at the Statehouse, where he rose in the Hall of Representatives and offered the following to Clay's half century of service:

"Throughout that long period, he has constantly been the most loved, and most implicitly followed by friends, and the most dreaded by opponents, of all living American politicians. In all the great questions which have agitated the country, and particularly in those great and fearful crises, the Missouri question—the Nullification question, and the late slavery question, as connected with the newly acquired territory, involving and endangering the stability of the Union, his has been the leading and most conspicuous part…. It is probably true he owed his pre-eminence to no one quality, but to a fortunate combination of several. He was surpassingly eloquent; but many eloquent men fail utterly; and they are not, as a class, generally successful. His judgment was excellent; but many men of good judgment, live and die unnoticed. His will was indomitable; but this quality often secures to its owner nothing better than a character for useless obstinacy. These then were Mr. Clay's leading qualities. No one of them is very uncommon; but all taken together are rarely combined in a single individual; and this is probably the reason why such men as Henry Clay are so rare in the world."

And that concludes my therapy session. A country that develops a Clay and a Lincoln can always do better. My mood is improving. I think I'll start working on that ditty. Fair warning—it probably won't be a high-toned affair.

The original of Ditties, Dirges and Duels was published on December 11, 2017 in 3quarksdaily.com 

Why Did The Coal Miner Refuse To Cross The Road-On 3Quarks

I was born one mornin' when the sun didn't shine
I picked up my shovel and I walked to the mine
I loaded sixteen tons of number 9 coal
And the straw boss said "Well, a-bless my soul"
 ("16 Tons" Merle Travis)


Who in his right mind would want to be a coal miner? It's scary, dangerous, terrible for your health, and destructive to the environment. In popular mythology, coal miners live in tar-paper shacks without indoor plumbing that are situated next to toxic waste dumps, buy all their supplies from the company store at ruinous rates, send children below ground by the time they are 12, and look 70 at 40—if they get there.

Hyperbole aside, it actually is dangerous, and the danger isn't just part of the historical past of Black Lung, the Coal and Iron Police, and Johnny Cash singing "16 Tons." There have been 13 deaths just this year. In 2010, at the Upper Big Branch Mine disaster, 29 miners died at a site that had over 350 safety violations, including lack of roof support, poor ventilation of dust and methane, failure to maintain proper escape ways, and the accumulation of combustible materials. The CEO of owner Massey Energy, Don Blankenship, was aggressively unrepentant. He wasn't going to slow production for safety's sake. The only thing he cared about was running coal, and running it as fast as it could be wrenched from the ground, at the lowest possible cost. If that meant cutting corners, that didn't trouble him.

Let's pose the question a second time: Who in his right mind would want to be a coal miner? Turns out, quite a lot of people. One of the most striking things about the various retraining programs for out-of-work coal miners and other old-economy/Rust Belt jobs, is how many reject them. They don't want to learn alternatives—the want their old jobs back. Along the Allegheny Mountain Range, where there's still plenty of coal to be mined, they think they should have them back—and will soon, because Trump promised to bring them back.

So, these are foolish people—either too ignorant to understand market forces or too uncaring about the environmental damage mining coal can cause, or just too reckless with their own lives and that of their children? And we need to save them from themselves…

Not exactly. First of all, thanks in very large part to an effective union, a coal miner, with overtime, can earn in the low six figures. They know there will be layoffs and company bankruptcies, but that's a powerful lure. Second, coal mining is truly a family business for many, with multiple generations following that path. The coal miner doesn't want to code. He wants to go back to the mine, wants to earn what he can from it, wants to return to the working community that has friends and neighbors, schools and athletic fields, baptisms, marriages and funerals.

But can he? The history of capitalism since the Industrial Revolution offers cautions. The movement from a traditional, pre-capitalist society to the modern innovative economy has created enormous wealth, and even the partial democratization of wealth, but also enormous upheaval and obsolescence. We have changed the way people live—no longer are they on farms where they can feed themselves, or manufacture at home, or barter with their neighbors. The overwhelming majority have become wage-earners, dependent on other people's capital allocations. When the market moves against the product being sold, whether that's shoes, textiles, steel, or coal, capital goes elsewhere, factories and mines close, jobs evaporate—as do the community towns that relied on those allocations.

We can't just ignore this issue, particularly at a time when we see that a great many old-economy jobs have disappeared, or will, in the foreseeable future. We like to comfort ourselves that creative destruction fosters new opportunities, but, as the sociologist Saskia Sassen has noted, not every displaced worker is able to find something comparable, and those who don't are effectively "expelled" from the economy. The work they can find, when they find it, will be low-wage and transitory, and will likely disconnect them from the community in which they lived.

The larger this cohort of expelled workers, the ones who won't or aren't given the opportunity to cross the road, the greater societal risk—and the greater risk to capitalism itself. Sassen has argued that you deepen the emotional and economic ties to capitalism by respecting and valuing the contributions of workers. Conversely, you erode belief in the system by treating them as replaceable, disposable commodities. In those circumstances, the individual realizes his powerlessness and loses any optimism he might have that the future will be better. He has no stake in a system that has no apparent stake in him.

How do we keep the worker engaged? Edmund Phelps, the 2006 Economics Nobelist, addresses this in his 2013 book Mass Flourishing. From roughly 1820 to 1960, industrialization, modernity, trade, and the expression of free-market principles produced a tremendous explosion of the very types of things that Sassen was looking for—economic sufficiency, work that has meaning and value, productivity not just as the means to an outcome, but imparting satisfaction. In such an environment, people can become risk-takers and innovators. Moreover, innovation doesn't express itself only in a macro, capital-intensive manner, but also in countless smaller businesses that have developed new products and markets.

Where did all that energy go over the last half century? Phelps suggests it has been drained through a combination of government intervention and corporatism. We need to rethink our priorities and approaches to return to what he calls a "Good Economy."

Phelps is a capitalist, a real true believer, so it is altogether possible to see some of what he says as a recitation of a conservative catechism. But he has a point. There is no doubt that, when government intercedes, whether it is through government spending, regulation, taxes, subsidies, trade deals, or preferences in access to public assets, it picks winners and losers. There is also no doubt that the market better allocates capital than technocrats, and government does not always understand the implications of the regulations it passes, even when it passes them with the best of intentions. Finally, government is not always a force for good—it is very often a place for rent-seeking, and the powerful in the private sector have learned that buying politicians can produce very high returns on investments.

We are about to embark on a great experiment that could be as revolutionary as the New Deal was. If you think lower taxes, less regulation, a green light for extraction, and a government totally dedicated to advancing the profitability of business will cure what ails us—your moment has arrived. The GOP has a free hand to enact anything it wants, at whatever cost.

It is unquestionably only an experiment, conducted by people who have a fuzzy grip on the science, and a strong motivation to do it regardless of whether it will actually work. But it could work nonetheless, if the goal is growth. The tax cut might slide us towards a Kansas-style meltdown, but it's equally possible the GOP is right and lower taxes directed at selected groups will spur substantial economic activity. Trump's trade initiatives might cede world markets to China, or he might effectively leverage our economic power and manage at least marginal and regional wins. Putting industry in a truly laissez-faire regulatory position where the sky's the limit on production, extraction, and pollution, will encourage exploitation and make parts of the country dirtier and less safe, but profitability is going to soar, and it's reasonable to assume that employment in favored industries will increase. Everything is a might and a maybe.

We might reasonably ask, is all this going to help economic inequality? No, it's going to intensify it. But just arguing over the morality of that is a dead end. Inequality is a lazy shorthand for something far more important, insufficiency. Most Americans care less about what Warren Buffett has, than about having enough themselves.

That is really the challenge the Republicans face, both on policy and politics, and one on which they will have to deliver to retain power. As Phelps himself said in his Prize Lecture in 2006: "My conclusion is that a morally acceptable economy must have enough dynamism to make work amply engaging and rewarding; and have enough justice, if dynamism alone cannot do the job, to secure ample inclusion."

Dynamism, and Justice. Neither party's dogma has historically embraced both at the same time. Let's see if Trump and the GOP can pull that off, even accidentally.

The coal miners must think they can. That's why they refuse to cross the road.
You load sixteen tons, what do you get?
Another day older and deeper in debt.
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go.
I owe my soul to the company store.

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