The Big Yellow Button Has Returned

 

Occasionally, when the need arises to rattle the tip jar, I supersize the PayPal contribution button, and today is such an occasion.

You see, we’ve been on COVID-19 lockdown here for more than two months, which means I haven’t been able to go out and enjoy a cold malt beverage since mid-March. And then I learned from investigative journalist Tim Carney that such an establishment is open within a 45-minute drive of my Undisclosed Location. This information made me very thirsty, for some reason. Obviously, I must engage in some old-fashioned shoe-leather reporting to follow up on Tim’s scoop.

IYKWIMAITYD.

The Five Most Important Words in the English Language are:

HIT THE FREAKING TIP JAR!



 

CPAC Emergency Tip-Jar Rattle

So, I had been procrastinating about preparations for CPAC, an event that I’ve been covering every year since 2006. It starts Wednesday, and today I went online to see about booking a hotel room and HOLY FREAKING CRAP! The Residence Inn where I usually stay is sold out, and the hotels nearest the event are charging completely crazy prices — $400+ a night. I managed to find a hotel about two miles away for $225 a night, but with taxes that will total about $1,000 for four nights.

Maybe I can get The American Spectator to comp me part of that, but still my wife is going to hit the roof if I don’t come up with at least a few hundred bucks soon — and by “soon,” I mean, today.

Anyway, I know this is the second emergency tip-jar rattle of the month, but if the readers could chip in a little extra — $5, $10, $20 — today, that would do wonders in terms of keeping my wife happy, which is of course Job Number One. This year, I’ll be bringing my brother Kirby to CPAC for his photography skills, and we should get some nice images on the blog, plus John Hoge and I will be doing The Other Podcast from the site.

CPAC has announced Vice President Mike Pence among the speakers, and we don’t know yet if President Trump will also show up. At any rate, the fact that my usual hotel is sold-out suggests that this year’s CPAC will be pretty big, and once more I remind you that the Five Most Important Words in the English Language are:

HIT THE FREAKING TIP JAR!




 

$300 by 5 p.m.

There’s good news and bad news. The good news is, my wife and I went to get our taxes done Thursday, and we’ll be getting a refund next week. The bad news is, the cable bill is $300 and I’ve got to have that paid by 5 p.m. today or I won’t have Internet access. So while the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel is in sight, there is a short-term emergency, and so I’m compelled yet again to rattle the tip jar. Regular readers know how this crowdfunding thing works — if 100 readers give $3 each, or 20 readers give $15 each — the arithmetic works either way. So whatever amount you can afford — $5, $10, $20 — would be appreciated.

PayPal doesn’t provide a tax form, so when we were getting ready to go see the tax preparer, I had to go through pages of last year’s transactions, adding up the totals. It was interesting to see the patterns. For weeks at a time, the contributions came irregularly, but then suddenly — BOOM! — there would be a day or two where the receipts totaled $500 or more, and I was trying to remember what caused those surges.

One such surge was when I went down to cover Marianne Williamson’s campaign in South Carolina, and another was when I went to Orlando for the “Red Pill” conference. So tax time for me is like a walk down Memory Lane, visiting the pleasant Ghosts of Tip-Jar Rattles Past, recalling that the Five Most Important Words in the English Language are:

HIT THE FREAKING TIP JAR!

UPDATE: The cable company got their money, and I’ll be taking my brother out to dinner later. Thanks to all who contributed.




 

The Return of the Big Yellow Button

 

In October, fearing that perhaps some of our readers were nearsighted, I decided to create an enlargement of the PayPal “donate” button, and was gratified by the response. Mrs. McCain has spent the past three weeks in a swing state with palm trees, helping care for our oldest daughter and her newborn son — our fifth grandchild — and my wife is due to fly home Friday. So I’m expected to have enough cash to cover the bills and therefore must once again rattle Ye Olde Tip Jar.

Meanwhile, our family is gathering for the holidays. My red-headed son Jefferson has returned home from his senior year of college, and my Army son Bob showed up this morning to go deer hunting with his twin brother Jim. My brother Kirby got some photos of this brotherly reunion.

 

 

 

 

You can click on any of those photos to view them full size. My youngest son Emerson is currently on a church mission trip to Honduras and won’t be back until Christmas Eve, but it was good to have the three older boys together, although the deer sadly decided not to join them. But still the Five Most Important Words in the English Language are:

HIT THE FREAKING TIP JAR!



 

There Is No Substitute for Victory

 

My Army son got an eight-point buck (click on the photo to see full-size) Sunday morning in the Georgia hills, yet this was small consolation for Saturday night’s tragedy, of which it is still too painful for me to speak. I spent most of Sunday working on a column for The American Spectator, and when I called my editor, Wlady Pleszczynski, to discuss the story, he had the poor taste to make a joke about Saturday’s game. I resisted the temptation to respond with a Polak joke. SEC football etiquette lesson: One does not joke with a ’Bama fan after a game like that.

The column I was working on will not be posted until this afternoon, but it involved accusations of “racism” against a conservative, and let me say this: I am proud to be an Alabama-American. Although my parents immigrated to Atlanta before I was born, my ancestral roots in Randolph County are deep — two of my ancestors served in Alabama regiments during the War for Southern Independence, and my father graduated from the University in 1950, so I was raised with an Alabamian identity. Human beings are tribal by nature, you see, so that despite growing up in Georgia, my affinity was always for the tribal homeland, so to speak.

Team spirit is an expression of man’s tribal nature. Humans are social creatures, so that those Enlightenment philosophers who theorized about man in a “state of nature” — a solitary creature, totally free and ungoverned by any system of law — were all just eloquent fools. Even if one is an atheist Darwinian fanatic (which I’m not), it should be obvious that our most primitive ancestors who deserve the title “human” could not have survived without cooperation among their kindred, so they were governed by the Law of the Tribe (i.e., whatever shared customs were required to secure the necessary teamwork) long before they developed any means to codify their tribal laws in written form.

Furthermore — and this is something that most intellectuals ignore — we are not the descendants of failures. If any primitive clan of paleolithic hunters could not develop a shared code of moral norms and social custom that enabled them to survive natural hardship and to successfully compete against rival clans, those primitive humans did not survive to produce progeny. We are the descendants of the survivors, so that our very existence is flesh-and-blood testimony to the efficacy of our ancestors’ Law of the Tribe. When I consider the harsh conditions that existed in northeastern Alabama when my pioneer ancestors arrived on that frontier wilderness circa 1840, perhaps you can understand how profound my admiration is of their hardy nature, which enabled them to survive by the sweat of their brows, clearing the forests, tilling the soil, building cabins, etc. My ancestors were survivors, or else I wouldn’t be here, and so my sense of tribal pride — team spirit — should be as understandable as, for example, the descendant of Irish immigrants celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, or a third-generation Mexican-American kid at an Ivy League college who buys into all that radical Aztlán nonsense even though he’s barely fluent in Spanish. You must represent your tribe, and I must represent my tribe: Roll Tide!

 

These three younger members of the McCain Tribe — Jefferson is 20, Reagan is 16, and Emerson is 18 — represent somewhat of a hybrid, considering that their mother is an Ohio native. They can thus claim membership in the Buckeye Nation, and my wife’s kinfolk enjoy ragging me when the Buckeyes are up (now 12-0 after defeating their hated rival Michigan) and the Crimson Tide is down. But I love them anyway, because Jesus taught His followers that we should love our enemies, and so I must even forgive my wife’s ancestors for fighting on the wrong side in the War for Southern Independence. Selah.

Now, if a proud Alabama-American can love a Yankee, as I do my Ohio-born wife, then why should Americans hate each other so much over comparatively trivial distinctions of ethnicity? Just because I’m the patriarch of McCain Nation doesn’t mean I hate other people as inferior. However great our family’s accomplishments might be — hey, did your son kill an eight-point buck this weekend? — we know that other folks have their own useful traits and talents to add to the common good. Yea, verily, I say unto you, even some Auburn fans are worthwhile human beings. Just because I’ve never met an intelligent Auburn fan doesn’t mean all Auburn fans are all idiots, and there’s no point repeating the common stereotype of all Auburn girls being ugly sluts. In fact, some of those Auburn sluts are kind of cute. But I digress . . .

My point is that life has a way of separating human beings into two large categories: Winners and losers. You can measure success however you want — wealth, fame, political power, football prowess or whatever — but in the grand scheme of human life, it is life itself that we must count. Perhaps it is egotistical of me to think that success might best be measured by the number of my descendants, but everything else I might have accomplished in life seems to me insignificant when I consider the enormously greater impact my six children could have on the future of humanity. Whatever difference one McCain might make in the world, alone and unaided, is exponentially multiplied in the collective potential of six McCains. My wife and I have tried to raise our children with high standards and high expectations, and have thus far been pleased with their accomplishments. Already we have four grandchildren, and my wife took a flight south on Saturday headed toward a certain swing state with palm trees, where our oldest daughter lives. Continue reading There Is No Substitute for Victory →

About That Yellow Button …

There are good days and bad days in the life of a blogger, and some days are more productive than others. I’m happy to note that the month of October has been our most productive since August 2018, as measured by total number of posts per month, and overall traffic has also increased, thanks in part to a certain Naked Bisexual Democrat. But then there’s the aspect of blogging known as “monetization,” or rattling the tip jar.

The past two months, I’ve tried to refrain from rattling my own tip jar because my brother Kirby had a medical emergency, which required extraordinary fundraising efforts on his behalf. Thanks to the generosity of our readers, Kirby is now recuperating here, and has an appointment at the nearest Veterans Administration facility on Friday. Meanwhile, however, there has developed a shortage of funds in my account, and not only is the cable bill (which includes our Internet service) of more than $300 due on Wednesday, but there are also other payments I’ve neglected and it’s kind of hard to blog by candlelight, if you get my drift.


 

As I’ve sometimes explained on The Other Podcast with John Hoge, the basic idea here is crowdfunding — if enough people give relatively small amounts, it adds up, and with an average of around 7,000 visitors daily, those readers who contribute just $5, $10 or $20 on these occasions when I’m loudly rattling the tip jar can make a huge collective impact on the bottom line. And did I mention I have a beautiful wife?

 

Mrs. McCain sometimes gets irritated when I post that 1990 bikini photo of her, but a shortage of income from my blogging career is arguably more irritating, and I like to keep my wife happy. After all, an unhappy wife might hasten that “till death do us part” aspect of our vows. Not that my wife would kill me. Not literally. At least, probably not. She’s the praying, Bible-reading kind of wife, and I’m pretty sure she’s solid on “Thou shalt not kill,” but then again, “lead us not into temptation,” eh?


 

Anyway, “happy wife, happy life,” and your contributions will certainly make my wife happy, no matter how irritated she might be that I’ve posted that old bikini photo again. And that photo is quite modest, compared to photos of a certain California Democrat we’ve seen lately. But consider that a hint about the subject of my next American Spectator column which was inspired by a Kiplingesque comment from John Hoge. Even when the monetization aspect of blogging is not quite what it ideally should be, we try to have fun, because who doesn’t enjoy laughing at mentally ill (and sometimes naked) Democrats?

The Five Most Important Words in the English Language are:

“Hit the freaking tip jar!”


 

Dead Men Tell No Tales

 

GAINESVILLE, GEORGIA
News of Jeffrey Epstein’s “suicide” reached me Saturday morning in the parking lot of a Hardee’s in South Carolina. After driving all night, I’d stopped in for some breakfast, then took a brief nap in the car before resuming my journey. When I woke up, I called my brother Kirby to check on his plans for attending Uncle Casper’s funeral.

“Jeffrey Epstein’s dead,” Kirby said.

“What?”

“Suicide, they say.”

“You’re kidding me.”

It seemed impossible. Epstein had been placed on suicide watch after a previous reported suicide attempt at the Manhattan jail where he was being held awaiting trial on sex-trafficking charges. Now there will be no trial on those charges, and no possibility that Epstein might implicate the many powerful men who allegedly cavorted with Epstein’s harem of teenage sex slaves. Should we, as they say, question the timing?

Epstein’s death comes just 24 hours after more than 2,000 pages of documents detailing the lurid allegations of his sexual abuse of underage girls were unsealed to the public.
On Friday morning, a federal appeals court published explosive documents pertaining to a 2015 lawsuit that Virginia Roberts Giuffre had filed against Epstein’s associate, socialite Ghislaine Maxwell.
Giuffre claimed Epstein and Maxwell kept her as a ‘sex slave’ in the early 2000s, whilst she was underage.
The unsealed papers — which made international news on Friday — implicated a number of high-profile men in sex scandals.
They include transcripts of a May 3, 2016 deposition made by Giuffre, in which she alleged that she was trafficked by Epstein and Maxwell to have sex with and provide erotic massages for politicians and affluent businessmen.
Giuffre claimed that she was ‘instructed’ by Maxwell to have sex with two high powered Democrats — former Senate Majority George Mitchell and former New Mexico Governor Bill Richardson.
Both Richardson and Mitchell have denied the allegations.
According to the documents, Giuffre claimed she also had sex with Epstein’s friend Prince Andrew when she was 17 years of age.

Words like “claimed” and “alleged” must forever be used in connection with these stories, because without Epstein — either as a defendant in his own trial or as a witness against others, if he had reached some sort of agreement with prosecutors — it is unlikely that anything can ever be conclusively proven as to the involvement of “high powered Democrats” with the underage girls Epstein procured for such purposes.

* * * * *

If you’re wondering about the Gainesville dateline, I spent the night at my son’s house here, a stone’s throw from the shore of Lake Lanier. Woke up this morning to the pitter-patter of granddaughter Eliza’s feet running around, which was nice. Yesterday’s funeral for my Uncle Casper was a “celebration of his life,” as the pastor said. Afterwards, the family gathered at Casper’s granddaughter’s home, and somewhere during the conversation over barbecue, one of my cousins asked, “Do you think Trump will be re-elected?” Keep in mind that many of my family are staunch Democrats, so my answer to that question had to be phrased tactfully, and thus I stuck to the facts: If the economy stays strong — a big “if” — for the next 15 months, it’s almost certain Trump will be re-elected, based simply on historical precedent. The problem, I explained, is that everybody who follows politics (including journalists) has a tendency to get so excited about the day-to-day drumbeat of headlines. Today’s Drudge headline or whatever “scandal” is being talked about on cable news isn’t going to change the basic political situation. When voters go to the polls in November 2020, they’re not going to be thinking about whatever was big news in August 2019. If the economy keeps going like gangbusters, Trump can claim to have delivered on his promise of making America “great again,” and gets re-elected, no matter who the Democrats nominate. This isn’t a controversial analysis, and I hope none of my kinfolk were offended by how I answered my cousin’s question.

Most people don’t pay attention to politics on a daily basis. TV talking heads, who get paid to care about politics, never seem to grasp how little the ordinary American cares this stuff. The beautiful thing about limited government is that we are free to live our lives without worrying too much about what happens in Washington. We should be grateful for that freedom, and perhaps Democrats who were emotionally traumatized by Hillary’s defeat in 2016 might wish to reconsider their efforts to make the federal government such an omnipotent force in our lives that elections become an all-or-nothing struggle for total power.

* * * * *

My rental-car contract requires me to return this Nissan sedan by 6 p.m. Monday, so I’m likely to spend this afternoon chilling out here at my son’s house, maybe go out to dinner this evening and get back on the road early tomorrow morning with 614 miles to drive home. And of course, the Five Most Important Words in the English Language are:

HIT THE FREAKING TIP JAR!



 

 

Reading for the Road: I Was Born in the Backseat of a Greyhound Bus

No, not me personally — I was born at Georgia Baptist Hospital (since renamed Atlanta Medical Center) off Boulevard downtown — but the lyrics of an old Allman Brothers tune came to mind:

My father was a gambler down in Georgia.
He wound up on the wrong end of a gun.
And I was born in the backseat of a Greyhound bus,
Rollin’ down Highway 41.

You can’t get more Southern than that, folks. “Ramblin’ Man” was the 1973 tune that became the Allman Brothers’ first (and only) Top 10 single, and more or less created the Southern rock boom of the 1970s. The song could also be seen as part of the same “road music” as The Eagles’ 1972 hit, “Take It Easy,” co-written by Jackson Browne:

Well, I’m a-runnin’ down the road,
Tryin’ to loosen my load,
Got seven women on my mind,
Four that want to own me,
Two that want to stone me,
One says she’s a friend of mine.

The romantic idea of life on the road — carefree, escaping from the hassles and hangups of life — appeals to something essential to the American character, dating back to our pioneer roots, when restless young men would leave the coastal settlements seeking freedom on the frontier. Rock-and-roll bands often sang about the traveling life because, let’s face it, any kind of success in the music business requires touring around to play in gin joints and honky-tonks. But traveling for a living is certainly not as glamorous or romantic as some people think. After spending a few years crisscrossing the continent on the campaign trail, I understood something one of The Beatles once said about their tours — it’s just a car to the airport, then a plane, then a car from the airport to the hotel, and so on. The “glamour” of travel isn’t remotely glamorous when you’re traveling for business. When you’re covering a political campaign, there’s no time to go sightseeing or lounge around the pool. You eat the free breakfast at the hotel, head out to whatever events you’re covering, find someplace to file your story for a midnight deadline, and then maybe hit the hotel bar for a couple of cold beverages before you crash, then get up the next day and do it all again.

“Political correspondent” kind of sounds like a cool job, and I suppose there’s a certain amount of thrill value in that rush to deadline, but doing it night after night, week after week, it becomes a grind, and by the time the 2012 campaign was over, I’d had enough of it to last a lifetime.

Road music is on my mind tonight because as soon as I finish this, I’m packing up and heading down to Georgia for my Uncle Casper’s funeral. I’d originally planned to leave this afternoon, but then I looked at the distance, figured I could drive it in 12 hours and, doing the math, decided it would be OK to leave about 10 tonight. So here are a few things for you to digest during the overnight shift, starting with Ace’s takedown of virtue-signaling #NeverTrump types:

Every morning is a new chance on twitter to seize on the SJW narrative of the day and shriek in triumph, “See? We were right about Trump, ALL ALONG! Now you see! Now you see! Now you see! We’re not the dumb ones, we’re the smart ones! YOU’RE the dumb ones! See?! See?! See?!”

It’s no longer about politics for these people, and hasn’t been for a long time now. “Politics,” for them, is merely an excuse to parade around and flaunt their moral superiority, demonstrating (to themselves, if to no one else) how much better they are than the rest of us. Ace also deserves a hat-tip for calling my attention to something I’d really rather ignore, namely Rick Wilson’s recent appearance on a network watched mainly by people trapped in airport lounges:

Tonight [Thursday] smelled like an awful lot like — although FOX has an internal philosophy of “never apologize, never back down,” that somebody finally said, wait a minute, every one of these idiots with a manifesto, it could be right off of Tucker Carlson’s teleprompter…
Every one of these idiots who comes out and says America is “browning” and we’re being invaded and we’re losing a demographic war. It all sounds an awful lot like, I think, this terrible and terrifying pseudo-intellectual framework they’re trying to build around white nationalism by excusing it.
Saying, oh, Oxycontin is causing white nationalism and economic anxiety is causing white nationalism. No, white nationalism goes of its own. It is a poisonous movement in this country and we have to be honest about it. And Donald Trump has empowered it.
Let’s not forget Donald Trump retweeted people like “WhiteGenocide99” during the campaign. I hate having to recap the whole Trump arc from birtherism to Charlottesville to the Central Park Five, all these things. We know what this man’s character is.
And what Tucker was trying to do for months on end was to gussy it up a little bit and pretend this nationalism of his isn’t driven by an underpinning of racial anxiety and hatred. And I think it’s disappointing but understandable, the Murdoch’s are not going to walk away from billions of dollars of ad revenue that they’ve been able to generate through shows like Tucker and Lou Dobbs and Sean Hannity and these other guys who go out every night and, you know, they’ll wink and nod to white nats out there from Tucker’s show.
Andrew Anglin and all these alt-right guys, they call Tucker “our guy.” They love the fact that he is vectoring the normies into their white nationalist movement in a way that is, I find particularly dangerous, and I think that Tucker has a responsibility to face up to that. I think he was a little nervous tonight. I think there was something in the air that didn’t quite sit with his normal confidence.

Wilson, who has turned his #NeverTrump stance into a career of sorts, hates Tucker Carlson because . . .? Oh, because of ratings. And money.

Tucker Carlson was Number One in the 8 p.m. ET time slot Thursday, with nearly 2.6 million viewers, while Rick Wilson appeared on the 11 p.m. hour of Don Lemon’s CNN show, with less than 700,000 viewers. And, apparently, the most important thing that CNN was “reporting” at that hour was — wait for it — what Tucker Carlson had said on his show three hours earlier. Do you think that maybe having a panel discussion about what’s on a competing network might not be a surefire formula for successful “news” programming? Or do you think maybe some CNN viewers (at least, the ones who aren’t trapped in an airport lounge) might decide to change channels and see for themselves what Tucker Carlson is saying, rather than watching CNN “analysts” talk about Tucker Carlson?

Meanwhile on Facebook, Juliette Akinyi Ochieng (who is not a “white nationalist,” except that everybody who votes Republican is now a “white nationalist,” according to CNN) has some really cogent thoughts about mass shootings and the “do something” gun-control reaction. She invokes Thomas Sowell’s A Conflict of Visions: Ideological Origins of Political Struggles, first published in 1987 and more relevant now than ever.

Well, that’s enough reading to keep you busy overnight. It’s past 10 now, and time for me to pack up and hit the road, but not before reminding you of the Five Most Important Words in the English Language:

HIT THE FREAKING TIP JAR!