An interesting analysis of how often various Supreme Court Justices vote one another. Scalia and Thomas are way down the rankings. Isn’t there hint of racism in some liberals’ contention that Thomas cannot think for himself? (Hat tip: Volokh.)
MORE ON MOORE: An “exploitation-movie-maker”? Jon Haber explains.
OKAY, OKAY: I was a little dismissive of Senator Clinton’s enthusiasm for raising taxes. Obviously, some taxes are necessary. But I’d cut spending before I touched any tax increases. Why cannot Hillary end agricultural subsidies, abolish corporate tax shelters, or means-test social security and Medicare? That would be for the common good. But it’s easier to raise taxes. Her invocation of her agenda with the “common good” is also part of what galls me. But, hey. I was a bit off the cuff. She does that to me. I’m trying to control it, but it’s hard.
EMAIL OF THE DAY: “I have been silently lurking on your blog since its early inception, thanks for that. But I was very moved by your last comments on the little harbor.
As a young boy, 40 years ago, we always spent a few weeks down the road in Eastham (old Cape), and every year when the rain day came we would head off to PTown for the penny candy, the Army Navy store, walking the pier and other tourist stuff. Typically our grandparents were in charge of bringing us there until they grew too old for 3 little boys, then our parents started accompanying us.
A very clear memory were the young townie boys who would climb the wooden pilings on the main pier and cajole tourists into throwing coins into the water so they could dive down to get them. The water was that clear! My brothers and I would wrap small flat stones in shiny gum wrappers and toss them in to fool the other boys.
And PTown taught me something about my grand-dad. Born and raised on the streets of Southie, WWI Marine, staunch union man who worked the presses for the Post and Globe well into his seventies. He would bring us to PTown with its latent wildness and a sea of people unlike anything we could witness in the suburbs, and would never say a thing. Like it was just another day.
Many years later as a young adult I was walking mainstreet with my brothers again and stumbled onto my grandparents sitting on a bench watching the world go by, we did not even know they were on the Cape. The town was much more open at this point, my grand-dad a very old man. But he would smile and tip his hat to every lady and transvestite that walked by. Just another day.
God I loved that man.” – More feedback on the Letters Page.
The Dish 