From the belly of the beast

(I'm still in Straw Poll recovery, tired. So let a rambling personal note to an old and dear friend stand as my interim report on the Ames follies. He writes:

...What about that Ron Paul?  I'll bet the Republican National Committee reached in and burned a few hundred votes, else wise he wold have buried Michelle.  Awesome.  Can he win in January?  End all the wars!  Audit the Fed!  Repeal the drug laws!


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And I can do no better than:

The  RP of Iowa runs this show, and the count is accurate. It is a quadrennial fund raiser which generates seven figures for the party, and these guys are smart enough to know that loose tallies would kill credibility, hence the goose.

What makes Paul's finish all the more impressive is his opponent. Actually, opponents, plural.

In running against Michele he took on the entire  Jesus-on-my-Sleeve political apparatus, and Iowa is a fundamentalist bastion.  They are well-funded and exceptionally well-organized. To even approach the numbers of Bob VanderPlatts' crusaders is a victory more than moral.

He also bucked the muddle-headed GOP center, what Goldwater called the east coast establishment, the Rockefellerites who differ with the hard left only in the speed and direction of their statist ambitions. And these guys are even richer than the fundies.

So, I'm pleased with his c. 25 per cent even though yesterday probably marked his personal high point.  You should have noticed by now that the news coverage is concentrated on how soon Michele will burn out, how Romney will fare against Perry, and the level of chaos Sarah will create if and when she jumps in. In media eyes Congressman Paul remains a quaint old fellow with a few useful thoughts but certainly is not a man to be taken seriously. I mean, who cares about those crazy Austrian economists? Who can even understand them? And Murray Rothbard? Whozzat?

To be viable six months from now, Paul would need at least very strong second-place finishes in Iowa, New Hampshire, and South Carolina. (Nevada -- where he might even win --  could help him, but I haven't checked on its 2012 primary/caucus arrangements yet.)  He will get the money he needs for these early contests, but his message is ultimately not salable to 50 per cent plus one at this time in our history.

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I was there with one of those unlimited-access badges around my neck, so I got to hang out about anywhere I wanted. I chose mostly to mingle with the enthusiastic youngsters -- kids your students' age. I haven't digested the events well enough to write about them yet, and I have only one firm observation to report: Ron Paul's volunteer co-eds were quite a little prettier than Michele's, but the typical Bachmann girl showed a lot more leg. Make of it what you will.

:)

Jim

(Addendum: I hope no one confuses opposition to theocracy with opposition to religion.) 

Ron Paul and the Seven Dwarfs

No one laid a glove on him last night, but, then, no one really tried to box him into a corner. Paul was his usual thoughtful self which is good for the national intellect, not so good for getting elected.

No one but Rick (I'm holier than Michele, honest) Santorum even swung hard, and he drew boos for saying Paul's Fed stance was "mostly wrong."

It's all background noise now, of course. The debate spin cycle has just a few more hours to run, and by the time the straw poll opens tomorrow the electrical teevee will overload circuits with news of Rick (I'm even holier than Santorum, plus I can do arithmetic and have cooler hair) Perry.

It is no longer about policy. It's about buses from the boondocks to Ames, full of people who made up their minds long ago. Paul has spent money on this little beauty contest. He has the buses and a much better organization than 2007. In the data-free expectations charades, he's tabbed to finish in the top three with Michele and Somebody Else.  The better he does, the more pressure on media types to  quit snickering every time someone uses the term liberty. 

(There are no polls about this straw poll. The universe is too small, the expected turnout ranging from just under 14,000 to maybe 18,000.)

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Rocinante is saddled and I've scrubbed rust from the lance.  A new edition of the TSA windmill identification guide is at hand. The house sitter/dog handler arrives shortly.  I am putting aside my general disinclination to join groups larger than 30,000 and attend receptions where people in shined Florsheims notice your necktie.  If this doesn't pay off in at least one belly laugh and several heartfelt grins, I am going to be one pissed off old war hose.

As Mr. Poe may have explained the straw poll...

The pestilence rages across the countryside, but in the palace Prospero entertains brilliantly. Hummingbird tongues and the finest Madeira please palates, and we dance away the hours while murmuring of our choices to replace the evil king.

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A man I admire greatly is coming briefly out of retirement to accept an unexpected  invitation to mingle with the mighty this weekend. He will enjoy the ball and all its dainties.  He will ignore the messengers bringing news of war, of riots, of  financial ruin from the outer world. Royal credential pinned to his doublet, he is  to be protected from all reality beyond the moat.  Like the real lords he will pretend there is no ominous thumping at the gate. And he will, for this brief evening, be correct in doing so. Have not the Duchess Bachman and Lord Perry assured him that they know the incantations to ward off Satan's power?

The gives my dear old friend leave to stay the night, to arise on Saturday and deliver his own ultimately futile decision. That the good doctor from the far province of  Texas should replace the king.

It will be ever so much fun, ne'er mind that lords beyond Ames will ultimately scorn the physician and choose a shaman to vie with the current crowned head.

And there will be other balls, laughter echoing from the gilded walls and unending waltzes from the musicians' balcony. My friend will not let his mind wander too far forward.  One should not enervate one's system with premature concern for  logical processes. Inevitability is a bore. Frightening, yet still a bore, so let others worry about the denouement.

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And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. 

Get a holster, mate

The appendix carry leaves something to be desired.

Uhhh, no, the gun didn't just "go off." Not even a pink Taurus will do do that.

The story doesn't tell us whether he can still count to eleven.

(h/t my buddy Alan)