@wildcatnews@UKFootball He was not just a kicking star. I don’t know how many times I watched him come off the bench to replace Daryle Lamonica in the fourth quarter and win the game for the Raiders. He was one of my all-time favorites!
Dear socialist friend,
Nothing is stopping you.
If collective ownership works so much better, you can prove it by next Tuesday. Pool your savings with your comrades. Elect a planning committee. Run a bakery, a farm, a repair shop – shared ownership, equal pay, decisions by vote. All of it is fully legal, today, everywhere in the West. No revolution needed.
And yet.
You want the workers to seize the factories – but you won’t open a food truck with three people from your group chat. You demand collective housing – but you won’t sign a joint lease with people who agree with you about everything.
People have tried voluntary socialism for two hundred years. The communes keep dissolving – the members simply walk out. The only socialist countries that lasted were the ones that locked the borders.
That’s the whole story. Where leaving is allowed, everyone leaves. Socialism only survives where leaving is banned. The people voted – on foot.
Just do it. Or admit that "collective" was always just a word for other people’s property.
@william_toti I interviewed in 1982, and Admiral Rickover had just retired. Admiral McKee accepted me into the program, but I have always regretted (perhaps foolishly) that I didn’t have the opportunity to interview with Admiral Rickover. Thanks for sharing your remarkable story!
In 2005, Jimmy Carter backed voter ID. He said it would help more Americans vote, not fewer.
The SAVE America Act carries that principle forward.
Two decades later, my Democratic colleagues call the same idea voter suppression.
I attended a county fair and watched a child sell a pig.
The pig is worth, I am told, somewhere near four hundred dollars. I looked this up afterward because I did not believe what happened.
The girl is twelve. She walked the animal into a ring wearing a white shirt and a numbered card. She had raised it herself, from a piglet, for nine months, which I confirmed, and she had a binder of records because the program requires one.
The bidding began. Local men. A man from a bank. A man who sells tires. A woman who owns a restaurant I had eaten at the previous evening.
It did not stop at four hundred.
It stopped at three thousand two hundred.
I turned to the man beside me and asked whether the pig was of exceptional quality.
He said, "It's a fine pig."
I asked whether it was worth three thousand two hundred dollars.
He said, "No."
I asked why the price was three thousand two hundred dollars.
He said, "She's a good kid."
I stood up. I could not remain seated. I said, out loud, in a metal building that smelled of animals, that a market which knowingly and deliberately misprices a good in order to put a child through a university, and does so every year, in the open, with an auctioneer and a microphone, is not a market at all but a rite, and that I have never seen a province conduct one so cheerfully.
He said, "You want a lemonade?"
I said that I did.
Here is the part I had entirely misread. The men bidding against each other were not rivals. They were raising it together. The tire man bid, then the bank man bid, and the tire man nodded at him, and they were pushing the number upward on purpose, in public, in front of the girl. She knew. Everyone knew. The auctioneer knew. The rite requires that nobody says it.
Afterward the girl shook every buyer's hand. She writes them letters later. That is also part of it. She writes letters.
I asked the restaurant owner why she bids every year.
She said, "Somebody bought mine."
She is fifty-eight.