Citizen Kaine

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The Republican convention has just concluded, the Democrats' convention is about to begin, and Hillary Clinton has named Virginia Sen. Tim Kaine as her running mate.

The tickets are set for November — or, at least, they will be when the Democrats make their ticket official next week.

And thus the quadrennial angst over the identity of at least one running mate is behind us. But the angst over what it all means and how it will influence the decision America must make continues.

The idealized image of a running mate is someone who will help the nominee's cause, but the overwhelming consensus on both running mates from pundits to both the left and the right was that the choices were rather boring safe picks — picks who weren't likely to hurt the nominees.

Neither probably helped the presidential nominees much in their home states — although you couldn't have said that about a Tim Kaine when Bill Clinton was heading the ticket not his wife. In 1992, when Bill Clinton first won the presidency, Virginia was reliably Republican, having voted for every Republican nominee for nearly 30 years. But after the Clinton administration, Democrats did increasingly better in Virginia in national elections, and they broke a more than 40–year–old electoral drought when Barack Obama carried the state in 2008. He went on to duplicate the feat, albeit by a narrower margin, in 2012.

Most of the polls of Virginia's voters that I have seen this year suggest that Clinton has been enjoying a comfortable lead, but the Kaine pick may prove to be beneficial in Virginia after all. The most recent Virginia poll that I have seen, Hampton University's survey of likely voters, showed Clinton and Donald Trump tied at 39% apiece.

But that, as I say, contradicts the findings in other polls. The NBC/Wall Street Journal/Marist and FOX News polls, which came out around the same time as Hampton's but surveyed registered, not necessarily likely, voters, showed Clinton with a larger lead over Trump than Public Policy Polling's June survey of more than 1,000 registered voters. That poll showed Clinton with a more tenuous three–point lead over Trump in Virginia.

Polls in the summer generally aren't too reliable, though. You really have to get into the fall campaign — and, in fact, get past the first presidential debate in late September — before the polls will give realistic readings on the pulse of the electorate.

Sure, they're fun to watch right now, like the initial phases of a horse race, but a lot can happen between the start of a race and the end of a race.

Polls in July usually can't tell you much about what to expect in November — except when those polls consistently show a landslide in the making, and it has been more than 30 years since America had a classic, textbook landslide.

Right now, it seems best to evaluate the running mate choices on how well they serve perhaps the most obvious need for both nominees — choices who could help heal fractured parties.

In the past, nominees often have sought to achieve party unity by offering the running mate slot to their closest competitors in the primaries. Sometimes offering an olive branch to the party's vanquished wing helps (i.e., Ronald Reagan's pick of George H.W. Bush in 1980), sometimes it doesn't (i.e., John Kerry's pick of John Edwards in 2004).

In Trump's case, he needed to shore up his credentials with conservatives, but the chances that he would pick the runnerup in the primaries, Texas Sen. Ted Cruz, were slim and none.

He came up with a conservative alternative, Indiana Gov. Mike Pence, who appears to be acceptable to most conservatives in the party and, with six terms in the U.S. House under his belt, has legitimate insider credentials to balance Trump's perceived outsider status.

One can argue, of course — and, no doubt, many will — whether Trump, with his business dealings, is truly an outsider. He has often bragged, in fact, of how intimately he knows the system. That can be a good thing if one's objective is to elect someone who can work within the system to change it, but it can be a bad thing for someone who believes a candidate with that much invested in a system will work to protect it, not change it.

It is difficult to make a plausible case that having Cruz on the ticket would have helped Trump much in November. The race between Trump and Cruz never was that close, and, historically, a party's base will unite in spite of differences on some issues even without the runnerup on the ticket — still Cruz's nonendorsement of Trump in his convention speech clearly shows division remains in the Republican Party.

Pence may be able to help with that, reassuring conservatives and potentially uniting the base. If he does, Cruz's nonendorsement may be all but forgotten by most Republicans in November.

There is division in the Democratic Party as well, but it seems less certain that Kaine will be able to help much with that.

Even though the Democrats will have a platform that is considerably more left–leaning than ever before, the leftist wing of the party heavily supported Sanders in the primaries, and many of those Democrats may not vote for Clinton. They probably won't vote for Trump, but they might vote for the Green Party's candidate, Dr. Jill Stein, or they might not vote at all.

All along, the Clinton general election campaign strategy has been counting on the help that young voters gave Obama in 2008 and 2012, but many young voters supported Sanders in the primaries, and it is questionable whether Tim Kaine can address their concerns.

It will depend on what those concerns are.

If Sanders' supporters are mostly concerned about social issues or foreign policy, Kaine might fit the bill. National Journal's most recent congressional rankings — which are based on 2013 roll call votes — indicated that Sanders and Kaine are pretty close in those areas. Kaine, in fact, was considered more liberal in both (68% to 66% on social issues, 71% to 61% on foreign policy).

But the Sanders campaign was based primarily on economic issues, and that is where a considerable divide exists between Sanders and Kaine. The Journal gives Sanders a rating of 82% on economic issues; Kaine receives a far more centrist rating of 53%.

As a result, many of Sanders' supporters may choose not to participate in the election at all if they do not feel another candidate adequately represents them.

(In the interest of comparison, here is how Clinton fared in the National Journal's rankings when Clinton, then a senator, sought the presidential nomination in 2008. She received an 84% ranking on economic issues, an 83% ranking on social issues and a 66% ranking on foreign policy issues. Sanders, two years into his first term as a senator, received a 94% on economic issues, a 77% on social issues and a 94% on foreign policy issues. Citizen Kaine was the former governor of Virginia.)

I have a feeling that, unlike just about every other presidential election in my lifetime, every single vote will matter this time, and the Clinton campaign, mindful of that likelihood, went for a running mate who could be an electoral firewall. The usual swing states will be swing states again — Ohio, Pennsylvania and Florida — and each presents its unique set of issues and challenges.

In Ohio, Trump must overcome the resistance of the state's governor, former primary challenger Gov. John Kasich. Trump's economic message is resonating with Ohio's blue–collar voters; three of the last four polls there have shown Trump and Clinton tied. Pence, as the governor of a neighboring state, may help there.

I haven't seen a poll from Pennsylvania in nearly two weeks. At the time, one showed Clinton leading by nine points, the other showed Trump leading by two points. The most recent poll from Florida had Clinton leading by seven points.

Kaine probably can't help much in Virginia, although if the race is as tight as the Hampton University poll suggests, Kaine and his perfect electoral record in Virginia could help Clinton if she stumbles in Florida, Ohio and Pennsylvania.

To maintain historical plausibility with political scientists, the winner of the election needs to carry at least two of those three states. Recent electoral results indicate that Clinton might be able to win the presidency without winning any of them, but the fact is that no presidential candidate since 1960 has won the White House without carrying at least two of those states.

Will that be the case again in 2016? Or, as it has been with so many other things this year, will that tidbit of conventional wisdom prove to be invalid?

The Coronation of Ronald Reagan

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"Isn't our choice really not one of left or right, but of up or down? Down through the welfare state to statism, to more and more government largesse accompanied always by more government authority, less individual liberty and, ultimately, totalitarianism, always advanced as for our own good. The alternative is the dream conceived by our Founding Fathers, up to the ultimate in individual freedom consistent with an orderly society."

Ronald Reagan
Acceptance speech
Aug. 23, 1984

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I wasn't a fan of Ronald Reagan when he was president. I had the opportunity to vote for him, but I didn't. I don't regret my choice. At the time, I was a Democrat, and I wouldn't have thought of voting for anyone other than the Democrat in any race. It's how I was brought up.

Even if I had not been brought up by diehard Democrats, that was age–appropriate for that time in my life, as I understand it. Winston Churchill reportedly said, "Anyone who isn't a liberal by age 20 has no heart. Anyone who isn't a conservative by age 40 has no brain." (Note: I say "reportedly" because I have found no proof that Churchill actually said or wrote those sentences. I don't know who did, but I do know that I have heard those sentences all my life, and they seem to be one of those unattributable truisms. Whoever said or wrote it was spot on in his/her evaluation of the progression of life.)

Well, I don't know what all that says about me. As I have acknowledged before, I am now an independent. I feel like Joe Piscopo, who recently wrote that he wasn't ready to embrace the Republican Party, but "[i]n good conscience ... I can't continue to call myself a Democrat."

That is reminiscent of what Reagan frequently told his audiences — that he had been a Democrat as a young man but became a Republican after the Democrats moved away from the things that drew him to the party in the first place. He would conclude his story by asking his audiences, "Did I leave the Democratic Party? Or did the Democratic Party leave me?"

I didn't understand Reagan's appeal to ordinary Americans. I suppose I bought the line of thinking that insisted Reagan was hopelessly nostalgic about a simpler time in American history and determined to revive that time instead of leading the nation forward into the future.

I couldn't understand Reagan's appeal. I knew people who voted for Reagan 30 years ago. Everyone did. He ended up winning 49 states and receiving more than 58% of the popular vote in the last real landslide in American history. Oh, I know that there have been times when candidates have won by "landslide" — even though they were no such thing. Historically, a landslide has occurred when one candidate received more than 55% of the popular vote and more than 400 electoral votes from 40 states or more.

Landslides were almost routine from 1964 to 1984. Three of the six presidential elections held in that time fit that description, but none of the seven elections held since 1984 have. Some have been called landslides, but none truly were. And, as evenly divided as America is today, I doubt that we will see a landslide like the one from 1984 in the near future — unless an extraordinarily charismatic candidate emerges.

To be honest, I never thought Reagan was all that charismatic, but, clearly, a large number of Americans did. In hindsight, I see some things differently than I did at the time, which is understandable, as I was quite young, but one thing that I have always known was that Reagan was an effective speaker. I didn't know why he was so effective at that time.

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I was always envious of that. He had a folksy kind of charm that made many people in 1980 realize that he was not the warmongering ogre his critics said he was. There were a lot of horror stories spread about Reagan that seemed less and less valid to people the longer he was in office. There is no doubt that many of the things his opponents said about him were true, but reasonable people look at the record and see that Reagan was president for eight years — and he never launched a nuclear attack on anyone. His detractors warned that he would have America in a nuclear war within days of taking office. Once they got past that image, they wondered how many other falsehoods they had been told.

As a Democrat, I hoped he would be replaced when he sought a second term, that his election had been a mistake that voters would redress. But, on this night 30 years ago, when I watched him accept the Republican nomination in Dallas, I knew he would win in November.

I don't know how I knew. But I didn't tell any of my Democrat friends the conclusion I had reached. I didn't want to discourage them.

Thirty years ago tonight, Reagan told his fellow Americans that the choice was simple — it was between "their government of pessimism, fear and limits, or ours of hope, confidence and growth.

"Their government sees people only as members of groups," he continued. "Ours serves all the people of America as individuals. ... Theirs lives by promises, the bigger the better. We offer proven, workable answers.

On the surface, that sounds good. No American disagrees with that statement, right? At least, as long as "theirs" and "ours" remain undefined. It's only when you go deeper into a candidate's philosophy on individual issues that he/she can legitimately be labeled conservative or liberal.

I knew people who voted for Reagan who probably disagreed with him 70–80% of the time, but they voted for him because they thought he was a strong leader. I understood that mentality in 1980, when Reagan ran against the discredited Jimmy Carter, who rode a populist wave into the White House four years earlier. Carter was widely perceived to be a failure. Again, in hindsight, I am inclined to believe that anyone who got the Republican nomination that year was destined to win.

I disagreed with the majority's assessment, but I honestly believed Reagan's victory in 1980 had been a fluke.

But, by 1984, Reagan had a track record. It was one with which I was not impressed, but it clearly impressed others, and his acceptance speech was filled with references that resonated with his listeners, both those in the convention hall in Dallas and the millions watching at home.

Such as the misery index, a calculation Democrats used in Carter's campaign against President Ford in 1976.

"[A]dding the unemployment and inflation rates, [Democrats] got what they called a misery index," Reagan said. "In '76 it came to 12.5%. They declared the incumbent had no right to seek re–election with that kind of a misery index. Well, four years ago, in the 1980 election, they didn't mention the misery index, possibly because it was then over 20%. And do you know something? They won't mention it in this election, either. It's down to 11.6 and dropping."

Reagan never stooped to name calling. His rhetoric was almost always positive; he tended to save his put–downs for himself. Perhaps that was what people found so appealing.

It may be why he could get away with blatantly emotional rhetoric, as he did near the end of his acceptance speech when he spoke of repairs that were being made to the Statue of Liberty.

"Just this past Fourth of July, the torch atop the Statue of Liberty was hoisted down for replacement," Reagan observed. I will never forget the cameras scanning the crowd of delegates and coming to rest on the face of a young woman, a delegate standing on the floor of the convention hall, looking up at Reagan, her hands clasped in a prayerful pose, tears streaming down her cheeks as Reagan said, "We can be forgiven for thinking that maybe it was just worn out from lighting the way to freedom for 17 million new Americans. So, now we'll put up a new one."

I thought that was astonishingly corny. I was even more astonished when I realized just how many heart strings Reagan had tugged with that tale.

Reagan was no fluke.

Nixon's Convention

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"It was neither to the audience of the faithful delegates at the convention, nor to the press, that Richard Nixon was talking. He was talking, as he had for months, and as he had designed his convention, to the people Out There."

Theodore H. White
"The Making of the President 1972"

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In modern times, with political conventions as meticulously scripted as they are, the proceedings are wrapped up in four days. Just like clockwork.

Before television began to dictate things, it often took delegates several ballots to agree on a nominee. Under such circumstances, a convention could go on indefinitely.

But, in 1972, the Republicans actually completed their convention business in three days. Of course, there wasn't much to do. The platform was decided in meetings that were conducted well before the convention began. President Richard Nixon and his vice president, Spiro Agnew, faced no obstacles to renomination.

There was no suspense of any kind.

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Mostly, the convention was little more than a series of speeches. In fact, it was at the 1972 GOP convention that the tradition of the first lady addressing the gathering began.

Pat Nixon wasn't the first first lady to address a convention, but she was the first Republican first lady to do so, and her speech in 1972 established what is now a commonplace practice in American politics.

The 1972 GOP convention was also the first major party national convention to have its keynote address delivered by a woman. Others followed, but Anne Armstrong of Texas was the first.

The reason for the abbreviated gathering was simple, really. The convention originally had been planned for San Diego, but the location was changed at virtually the last minute.

The city had already been experiencing a number of problems, but then columnist Jack Anderson revealed that a memo written by a lobbyist for International Telephone and Telegraph (ITT) recommended that the company make a substantial financial pledge to San Diego's bid in return for a settlement of the Department of Justice's antitrust case against ITT.

Because they were concerned about a scandal, Republicans decided three months before the convention to move everything to Miami instead. Ironically, around the time that the convention decision was being made, the seeds for a real scandal were being planted at the Watergate Hotel in Washington.

On Aug. 23, 1972, when Nixon delivered his acceptance speech, the Watergate break–in was barely two months old.

Less than a month later, the seven men who were arrested at the Democratic National Headquarters were indicted, prompting an Oval Office meeting in which White House counsel John Dean later claimed he first discussed Watergate with Richard Nixon.

There really were no indications on this night 40 years ago that Watergate was on Nixon's mind.

He was in Miami, where he was about to deliver his fifth acceptance speech to a Republican convention.

What I remember about that night is that my parents, my brother and I were in Washington, D.C., watching the convention on the TV in our motel room.

We were driving home to Arkansas after spending some time in Vermont visiting with some of my parents' friends. I suppose my brother and I were scheduled to start school the following week, and my best guess is that we probably spent the next two or three days on the road in order to get back on time.

We had spent a little time seeing the sights of Washington, but we were back in the motel room by the time Nixon spoke.

On this night, my recollection is of the four of us in those two beds, the sound of the air conditioning competing with the sound from the TV, a mixture of Nixon's voice and the roar of approval from the delegates.

Every once in awhile, my father would utter what the Nixon White House would later famously label expletives in transcripts of recordings of White House conversations. Dad despised Nixon so much that, when Oliver Stone released his biopic about Nixon in the 1990s, he refused to see it "even though they trash him in it."

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Of course, Dad wasn't alone on that. Even many of Nixon's supporters despised him. There were many, many times in that 1972 presidential campaign when I heard Nixon described as "the lesser of two evils."

I frequently hear electoral choices described that way, but Nixon must have set some sort of record for it in 1972. I'm not exaggerating. No one seemed to like him.

Well, the Republican delegates seemed to like him well enough when he stood before them to give his final acceptance speech 40 years ago tonight.

"He had been around this track often enough to know the pace," wrote historian Theodore H. White, "and was hitting his adversary first with humor, then with scorn, before delivering the message."

Within two years, though, Nixon would return to California, a disgraced former president

The Best and the Worst in One Night

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Twenty years ago tonight, the Republican Party put on public display both its best side and its worst.

Now, for quite some time, I have observed the evolution of the absorption of an incendiary term like hate in our national political discourse.

In my experience, political campaigns have always been contentious. I grew up in Arkansas, about a mile from a prominent political family. The patriarch was a well–known segregationist who was not above using fiery rhetoric in his speeches, and he sought statewide office a couple of times when I was a child.

But, even in that environment (and, admittedly, I was quite young so there may be things I do not recall), the word hate was seldom, if ever, used. Looking back on those days, I feel it would have been considered bad form to use that word, even if it really did describe how a politician felt about his adversary and vice versa (and, no doubt, it did).

That word is tossed around so casually these days. Both Democrats and Republicans regard people who disagree with them as haters, but I believe both sides make the mistake of confusing dissent with hate.

Just because someone disagrees with you does not mean that person hates you. Look up the words in the dictionary. You'll find that the terms are not interchangeable.

This really seems to be a fairly recent phenomenon — in the context of American history, at least. When I was growing up, I knew Republicans and Democrats disagreed on many things, but only the most extreme members of either party accused the other of hatred. At the end of the day, both sides made an effort to reach a compromise.

In that time, both sides seemed to understand the meaning of the word civility.

But politics has become so polarized in this country that, today, neither seems to know what civility is, even though they give lip service to the word. Neither side is willing to give an inch — and both sides are all too eager to accuse the other of hatred. Civility gets lip service and little else.

When did this transformation happen?

I have been unable to determine the precise moment when it became socially acceptable to accuse those with whom one disagrees of hatred. I can identify points in its evolutionary line when behavior that was once considered extreme became the norm, but I can't say exactly when that transformation began.

Some would say it started with Richard Nixon's "Southern Strategy," designed to exploit racial tensions and help him win the presidency in 1968. Others would point to Ronald Reagan kicking off his 1980 general election campaign with a reference to the racially charged code words states' rights in Mississippi.

And those were certainly covert points in the timeline of the acceptance of hate as a political argument. A more overt brand of political hate emerged in 1988, which is still regarded by some as the most mean–spirited campaign in American history — although, when all is said and done, the 2012 campaign may well exceed it.

It's already getting close to it, and we haven't even reached Labor Day yet.

(In case you don't remember, let me refresh your memory. 1988 was the year backers of George H.W. Bush's campaign unleashed the Willie Horton commercial against Michael Dukakis.)

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Those were all significant milestones in the evolution of hate in American politics, and there certainly have been others since, but I always felt that the most blatant appeal to hate occurred 20 years ago tonight — when Pat Buchanan spoke to the Republican National Convention in Houston.

Buchanan, who had challenged Bush in the primaries and caused the president considerable discomfort when he was forced to work for a nomination he expected would be his for the taking, gave what has been dubbed his "culture war" speech, railing against the opposition with such venom that I am hesitant to quote it directly today.

(With Barack Obama's class warfare, I suppose things have now come full circle.)

But I will quote this much: Buchanan ranted, at length, about "abortion on demand, a litmus test for the Supreme Court, homosexual rights, discrimination against religious schools, women in combat" — all things he said a Clinton administration would impose on America.

The speech, delivered early in the evening, probably had its desired effect. It stirred up the conservative base, which was considered shaky for Bush at best in 1992.

Now, I can tell you that Texas is a fine place to whip conservatives into a frenzy, and Buchanan clearly was working on it that night. But it was an appeal to the worst of Republican instincts.

However, the possibility of redemption was at hand. Former President Reagan was about to give his final national address.

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At the time, of course, no one knew it would be his final address. He didn't reveal to the public that he was afflicted with Alzheimer's disease until a couple of years later.

After he left the presidency, Reagan made relatively few public appearances before sharing his condition with the public. Each time I saw him speak in those years, there was always the thought that it might be his last one. In fact, I remember having that thought 20 years ago tonight.

But, at the time, I suppose, I believed there would be another. There was always another with Reagan. He was less than four years removed from his presidency, and the memory of his administration still cast a warm glow over the Republican Party. He was its rock star, even at the age of 81. He was its elder statesman, its president emeritus. The night he spoke to the 1992 Republican convention, they passed out placards for the delegates to wave when he came out to speak.

I didn't attend the convention, but I remember seeing the placards — in the flesh, as it were.

I was about to begin my first semester teaching journalism at the University of Oklahoma. Many staffers from the student newspaper had press passes for the convention, and they brought the placards back with them and put some up on the walls and file cabinets in the newsroom.

The placards said something like "Thank the Gipper for all he has done for our country!" — and, occasionally, on this night 20 years ago, the delegates burst into a chant of "Thank You, Ron!" and waved their placards.

Before he told the American public that he had Alzheimer's disease, Reagan was kind of like the Brett Favre of American politics. Most quarterbacks suffer a serious injury of some kind by the time that they're in their 30s, but Favre was different. He never got hurt, and he kept playing into his 40s.

Favre was the exception to the rule in football, and, I must admit, I believed Reagan was the exception to the rule in American politics. After all, three of the four men on Mount Rushmore died before reaching the age at which Reagan was first elected president. I saw no reason to think he would not be around for many more years — and, in fact, when he died, he had lived longer than anyone else who served as president.

As I have mentioned here many times, I did not agree with Reagan on most policy issues.

But it was not necessary to agree with Reagan on anything to understand that he was very effective as a public speaker. It was for that skill more than anything else that he was granted the rarest of tributes a president can receive — a moniker that is positive, not negative.

Even before he left the White House, Reagan was called "the Great Communicator."

That skill that Reagan had was on full display in Houston 20 years ago tonight. It was not what it once was. He was, as I say, in his 80s. But he could still bring the delegates to their feet and, at times, to tears. He spoke with optimism about America's future ("We were meant to be masters of destiny," he said, "not victims of fate"), and he brought the house down with a one–liner about then–Gov. Bill Clinton portraying himself as another Thomas Jefferson ("I knew Thomas Jefferson. He was a friend of mine. And, Governor, you're no Thomas Jefferson").

It was vintage Ronald Reagan, and modern politicians could learn from his example.

Take away the political philosophy, and you could sum up Reagan's approach in a song title — "Accentuate the Positive." That is what politicians of all stripes can learn from Reagan.

I don't know how Reagan felt about that song, but it perfectly describes his sunny disposition. That was what really appealed to people about Ronald Reagan. Even his political opponents had to concede that they liked him.

And, on a night when the worst of the Republican Party was presented to the American people, Reagan provided balance with its best.

A Voice in the Wilderness

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"... George McGovern was about to have his moment. The moment was 2:48 in the morning. ... [T]he audience for his speech had dropped from 17,400,000 to 3,600,000. Yet he was speaking beautifully. He had sucked up from his experience in one of the longest campaigns in American history a knowledge of precisely those keys of emotion he himself could touch best, and the organ keys he played now were poetic and evangelical."

Theodore H. White
"The Making of the President 1972"

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From the rear–view mirror perspective of American history, George McGovern was the Democrats' version of Barry Goldwater.

He went down to defeat in a landslide of historic proportions, as Goldwater did, but he was a glimpse into the party's future.

Just as the 1964 ascendance of Goldwater, with his right–wing rhetoric, foretold a time when the moderates would be overthrown within the GOP and the conservatives would rule, McGovern's nomination in 1972 hinted at the day when nominating liberals would be commonplace in the Democratic Party.

Likewise, in ways that I didn't comprehend until many years later, 1972 had a huge influence on me. My mother played a big part in that.

Regular readers of this blog know how I feel about my mother so I won't go into detail on that. Neither should it be necessary to remind my readers that I was raised a Democrat and voted for Democrats for many years — but I now consider myself an independent.

The designation Democrat wasn't quite as restrictive when I was a child as it is today. In 2012, if one self–identifies as a Democrat, one is essentially embracing a left–leaning agenda, but 40 years ago, there were still quite a few conservative Democrats — and quite a few middle–of–the–road ones, too.

In those days, the Democrats' tent was big enough to accommodate them all — but not necessarily comfortably. It made for some pretty spirited debates — and, sometimes, some unpredictable outcomes.

Now, as I say, Mom was a Democrat. She was unapologetically a liberal Democrat, and I have no doubt she would feel quite at home in today's Democrat Party. But, while I'm sure Mom would be pleased that the party has moved more in her philosophical direction, she might miss the give and take of the Democratic scraps of her day.

See, in 1972, Mom was part of the liberal wing of the party. In large part because of its anger and frustration over the Vietnam War, that wing had been gradually seizing power within the party ever since Lyndon Johnson was elected in a landslide in 1964 and proceeded to escalate the bloodshed in southeast Asia.

And the liberals had come to realize, after settling for LBJ's vice president in 1968 when the Gene McCarthy candidacy fell short, that winning the presidential nomination was the gateway to public acceptance.

George McGovern's nomination for the presidency in 1972 was, in many ways, the fruition of the liberal wing's struggle for the heart and soul of the party.

In hindsight, that nomination probably wouldn't have been possible if it hadn't been for interference from President Nixon's campaign operatives, but, at the time, it was seen as confirmation of the party's permanent shift to the left.

And, whether intended or not, that has been the outcome. The party did seem to be moving back to the center with the election of Jimmy Carter four years later, but since Carter's time, Democratic nominees have tended to be — pardon the pun — progressively liberal.

I was a child in 1972, but I was an enthusiastic McGovern supporter. It wasn't so much because I understood many of the things of which he spoke but because Mom could always explain things to me in ways I could understand. And Mom was a McGovern supporter — so I was a McGovern supporter. Such was my logic in 1972.

The race for the 1972 nomination was extremely contentious. The party's more centrist establishment tended to favor the guys who had been on the '68 ticket, Hubert Humphrey and Ed Muskie, and the conservative wing liked George Wallace and Henry Jackson.

The emergence of an insurgent from the left drew a united effort to deprive McGovern of the nomination. It failed, but it made things quite interesting — especially after an attempt to assassinate Wallace inflated his vote totals in some late primaries.

Things didn't necessarily go smoothly when the Democrats held their convention in July 1972, but, to be sure, it was a lot smoother than it had been four years earlier, when antiwar protests turned into clashes with police in the streets of Chicago, but it was far from incident–free. In 1972, though, the Democrats kept their battles inside the convention hall.

In the buildup to the Democrats' 1972 challenge to Richard Nixon, they had relaxed their rules, allowing many groups that had not been adequately represented in the past to have an enhanced presence (and, consequently, enhanced power) at the convention.

That was a double–edged sword. Sometimes those battles had great substantive significance — debates over some platform planks went on all night — and sometimes they were frivolous.

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Take for example the ridiculous fight over the vice presidential nominee.

For anyone who listened to the roll call of the states and heard some of the names of those who received a vote or two (actual people, such as McGovern's wife, Chinese leader Mao Zedong and TV journalist Roger Mudd and fictional TV character Archie Bunker), it was hard not to reach the conclusion that the groups who had been ignored in the past were flexing their newfound political muscles a bit — and they were doing so at their own nominee's expense.

Modern political conventions are so tightly managed that the nominee's acceptance speech is always delivered at a time that ensures maximum exposure in all 50 states. (This year, in fact, the Democrats forced the NFL to move its traditional season kickoff from Thursday night to Wednesday night so as not to conflict with Barack Obama's acceptance speech.)

But instead of giving his speech to a primetime audience on Thursday night, McGovern wound up speaking to a TV audience of mostly insomniacs. It was past midnight in most U.S. time zones when he started to speak.

McGovern tried to make light of the fact that his choice for running mate, Missouri Sen. Tom Eagleton, was challenged by "only 39 other nominees." He also poked fun at Nixon's selection of Spiro Agnew as his running mate four years earlier in a process that had been criticized as too rushed. As a result, he said, Democrats had learned "that it pays to take a little more time."

McGovern would soon regret those words.

Nevertheless, as White observed, he gave a great speech. But hardly anyone saw it.

I did.

It was summer, after all, and I was a kid. Staying up late was nothing special for me, and I remember sitting alone in the wee hours of the morning in my family's living room with my cassette tape recorder, dutifully recording the speech for Mom to hear the next day.

Like most folks, she had gone to bed long before the speech was given. I remember the house was mostly dark and mostly quiet — and I remember that I tried to keep the volume on the TV down so as not to disturb my parents or my brother.

I remember playing the tape for Mom the next day. She seemed to agree with most of it, nodded her head sometimes, broke into smiles at points, but she didn't seem as enthusiastic as I expected her to be.

Maybe she knew, somehow, what was to come. I was too young to realize it, of course, but I'm sure Mom was aware of the long odds McGovern faced.

"That was a good speech" was all she said after listening to my tape of the speech.

I was always sorry that she never got to see it.

Because, when you look at the 1972 campaign in that rear–view mirror of history, it is all too clear that George McGovern did not have many good days.

But this day 40 years ago was one of them — even though McGovern wound up delivering his acceptance speech to an audience made up mostly of children of the night.

Eagleton's withdrawal in a couple of weeks would not be a good day for McGovern, nor would the repeated spectacle of McGovern practically begging every prominent Democrat to be on his ticket — and being turned down by everyone until he came to Sargent Shriver.

There were no presidential debates in 1972. In fact, it was the last presidential election that did not feature at least one debate. It will always be anyone's guess whether a debate would have been a high point — or another low point — for the McGovern campaign.

And, on this night in 1972, what could safely be said to be McGovern's worst night of the campaign, his 49–state landslide loss to Richard Nixon, was nearly four months away.

Democrats in 2012 may feel they have been unfairly criticized at times, but their trials and tribulations have been laughable compared to what McGovern endured.

You could probably count the number of good days he had on a single hand — maybe two.

When he did have a good one, it had to be savored.

Re-nominating Clinton

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1996 Democratic National Convention-Clinton Acceptance Speech
- Watch more Politics Videos at Vodpod.

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It's ironic now, when one watches footage from the Democratic National Convention held in Chicago 15 years ago, to see and hear Bill Clinton thanking the delegates for entrusting him with the presidential nomination again.

It's ironic when one realizes that, at that time, Clinton was already involved in the relationship with Monica Lewinsky that would threaten to undermine his second term.

From the perspective of 2011, it's hard to look back at Clinton's second term and not see many ways in which trust was violated — and, as a result, much of a presidency was squandered.

But, on this night in 1996, he was the earnest Bill Clinton I remember from my days in Arkansas. When I lived there, he was defeated in his first bid for re–election, in part because he approved a modest increase in license tag fees.

As I say, the increase was modest, but voters perceived an almost cavalier attitude in Clinton and punished him for it. When he ran for governor the next time around, he publicly apologized to the voters for the increase.

Raising state revenue in the midst of what was then the worst economy since the Depression was necessary, but he still apologized "because so many of you were hurt by it."

Perhaps he didn't realize — or perhaps he chose to ignore — that the decisions elected officials make can influence the voters in many ways — especially those decisions that are intended to be known by only a few people because that is precisely the kind of thing that tends to leak out.

Anyway, as just about anyone old enough to remember the late 1990s will tell you, the revelation of Clinton's relationship with Lewinsky became the foundation of the impeachment charges that paralyzed his presidency.

The — ahem — moral seems clear: If you want your private life to remain private, don't run for office.

It is a reminder, I guess, that elected office — especially the presidency — is a sacred trust. The voters entrust the powers of the presidency to select individuals, and that carries with it certain expectations — of behavior, of policy direction, of a lot of things.

And it's darn near impossible now to listen to Clinton recite his administration's economic accomplishments — i.e., the millions of jobs that were created in his first term — and not feel somewhat wistful after one makes the inevitable mental comparisons to the current economic situation.

Because my roots are in Arkansas, I often feel — justifiably, too, I might add — that I grew up with Bill Clinton. It seemed he was always in office, mostly as governor.

He is quite a bit older than I am, but we both came from small towns in Arkansas (my hometown is considerably larger now, Clinton's is marginally so), and, when he describes his boyhood in his memoir, "My Life," he could be describing mine as well.

After I became old enough to vote, I supported Clinton every time he was on the ballot in the years I lived in Arkansas. Sure, I had heard the stories about his infidelity, but, from what I could see, if there was any truth to the stories, he did a good job of keeping his personal and public lives separate from one another.

No one asked me about Monica Lewinsky in 1996. Nobody had heard her name. That was something that came out after Clinton had been sworn in for a second time.

In 1996, if someone had asked me about Clinton's private life, I would have said that it did not seem to have had any kind of influence on his job performance. I didn't approve of the idea of a president who was unfaithful to his spouse, but I figured that, as long as it didn't affect his job performance, it was not my business.

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Going into the Democratic convention in Chicago 15 years ago today, there were some Republicans who complained that the vice president, Al Gore, was too wooden, too stiff — which always struck me as a weak complaint, a nitpicky kind of thing.

The sort of thing one quibbles over when one has no more arrows in one's quiver.

At the convention, Gore poked a little fun at himself, using the enormously popular "Macarena" song to do so.

Because much of the party's platform and other business were addressed ahead of time, the delegates to that convention had little else to do while they waited for the speakers so they danced to the "Macarena." The television cameras showed them dancing on several occasions, and Gore mentioned it during his speech.

Then he pretended to do his version of the "Macarena" — standing perfectly still (only his eyes moved) — and then asked, "Would you like to see it again?"

The crowd roared.

Seldom in modern memory had Democrats gathered for a national convention in such a jovial mood. Certainly, their last convention in Chicago — the one that nominated Hubert Humphrey in 1968 — had not been a pleasant experience.

And why shouldn't they be jovial? Clinton's job approval ratings had been in the 50s most of the year, and all indications were that he would be re–elected.

And he was.

The Bland Leading the Bland

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When the Republicans gathered for their 1956 national convention, they were there to renominate a president who had been far from a sure thing to seek a second term almost a year earlier.

President Eisenhower had suffered a heart attack on Sept. 24, 1955, and he had undergone surgery related to his Crohn's disease early in 1956. Thus, there was some uncertainty whether Eisenhower would seek re–election — at least initially.

However, the president bounced back, and speculation in Republican circles shifted to the question of whether the vice president, Richard Nixon, would be retained.

As a matter of fact, that was a reasonable source for guesswork — even though it seems that, in modern times, almost no vice president has been spared such speculation when the president was about to begin a re–election campaign. At least, no incumbent vice president in my memory has been considered a lock for renomination.

Until the president took it upon himself to put such gossip to rest.

Whether most, all or any of the presidents in my lifetime really were considering new running mates, I do not know. The only president in my life who actually chose a running mate other than the incumbent vice president was Gerald Ford — and neither he nor the vice president had been elected.

But there is enough evidence available that we can be reasonably certain that, in 1956, Eisenhower was interested in a new running mate.

Eisenhower, it has been said, believed Nixon was too partisan and too controversial. Ike's party had lost control of both houses of Congress in the 1954 midterm elections, and he may have wanted a vice president he thought would work better with Democrats.

Some historians have said Eisenhower approached Nixon about taking a Cabinet post. But Nixon was popular with the base of the Republican Party and, if he was asked to withdraw, he must have declined.

It's possible, too, that Ike never asked Nixon to fall on his sword.

Anyway, in the end, Nixon remained on the ticket. What's more, he re–defined the vice presidency. He used it as a platform from which he campaigned for numerous Republican candidates in 1954. In the process, he assembled a devoted network of grassroots Republican allies across the country — which may have been the reason why Eisenhower relented and kept him on the ticket. He may have wished to avoid a confrontation within the party.

That, in fact, was how Nixon built the array of connections that led to his nomination and election in 1968 — by campaigning for Republicans from coast to coast in the 1966 midterm elections. And, in 1968, Nixon pioneered the "Southern strategy" that continues to influence American politics.

But, in 1956, all that was still in the future.

It may be hard for 21st century observers to fathom, but there really was nothing particularly extreme about the 1956 Republican platform. In fact, the 1956 convention was largely absent any drama to speak of.

Consequently, when the Republicans gathered in San Francisco, there was no suspense about the identities of the nominees. There really wasn't much suspense about anything. It seems to have been a largely by–the–script convention; Eisenhower was renominated by acclamation.

But the historical perspective is fascinating — for the Republican Party that so gleefully renominated Eisenhower 55 years ago is very different today. Passages from Ike's acceptance speech testify to that.

Eisenhower may have been a rather bland, plain vanilla president, but he did possess some beliefs that were bold even for his time — and almost certainly would be considered too liberal by modern GOP standards.

"Our party detests the technique of pitting group against group for cheap political advantage," Eisenhower told the delegates.

He also said, "The Republican Party is the party of the future because it is the party that draws people together, not drives people apart."

One can only wonder what Ike would think of today's Republican Party.

No More Mr. Nice Guy

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Jerry Ford was always a likable guy — even when he was put in the unenviable position of having to defend Richard Nixon.

And he had to do that far too often after Nixon (under the provisions of the 25th Amendment) picked him to replace the previous vice president, Spiro Agnew, who resigned in disgrace in October 1973.

There were probably many times during Ford's 2½–year presidency when he was too nice for his own good, and this day in 1976, the year he sought a full term as president, may be the best example.

On this night 35 years ago, Ford's task was to defend his own actions as president after Nixon's resignation — when he accepted the Republican presidential nomination.

He was the survivor — narrowly — of a long, sometimes divisive campaign against former California Gov. Ronald Reagan for that nomination, and this night in Kansas City in 1976 was supposed to be his night.

Ford had been mercilessly attacked by Reagan's followers for the fall of Saigon and detente with the Russians. He had been ridiculed for many things, and, although Reagan had not been nominated, the right wing of the party still managed to squeeze several conservative planks into a platform that, in the past, had been much more centrist in its tone.

In so many ways, on this day in 1976, Ford prepared to accept the nomination of a party that was moving more to the right. He could rightfully be said to be the last of his breed of Republicans.

(Not so long ago, Ford's running mate, Bob Dole, observed that Nixon probably couldn't win the Republican nomination today. "He'd be too liberal," Dole said. Astonishing.)

This night was to be Ford's opportunity to present his side, to reassure voters that the GOP had not been hijacked.

Yet, strangely, the night — and the future of the Republican Party — belonged to Reagan and the right wing. In the context of what we have witnessed in the last 35 years, the conclusion that this was centrism's last real gasp in Republican national politics is inescapable.

People often say the party was hijacked by the right–wing extremists in 1980 — and, to a great extent, that was true — but I believe it really began in Kansas City 35 years ago tonight.

And Ford, in his amiable, well–meaning way, was a willing (if unintentional) accomplice.

As tradition required, Ford delivered his acceptance speech, and he did an adequate job. Ford never was a stemwinder of a speechmaker, but it actually wasn't a bad speech — by his standards.

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But he never could compete with Reagan when it came to speech giving.

And, on this night, after he had given a respectable acceptance speech, Ford also gave the delegates — and the viewing audience at home — an unprecedented opportunity to compare the nominee to the man he had beaten, side by side.

With all eyes on him, Ford waved to Reagan, who was sitting in the back of the hall, and prevailed upon him to come down and share the spotlight. Reagan agreed to do so — and, whether he intended it or not, he upstaged the president of the United States with an unforgettable impromptu speech.

While I don't believe that what happened 35 years ago tonight was what ultimately defeated Ford, it sure didn't help.

Ford didn't give a bad speech. He simply didn't sparkle — whereas Reagan, in an extemporaneous speech, did.

When Reagan was done, many of the delegates — and many of the folks watching at home — must have wondered if the wrong candidate had been nominated.

Perhaps that doubt persisted when the voters went to the polls that November. Perhaps the voters were angry about the pardon of Nixon. Perhaps they were simply ready for change.

Whatever the truth was, I think it can be safely said that what happened on this night in Kansas City 35 years ago didn't help Ford's bid for a full term.

And it certainly set the table for what was to come.

Shaken, Not Stirred

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Author's note: In March 1956, Ian Fleming published "Diamonds Are Forever," in which James Bond's preference for a martini that was "shaken, not stirred" became known.

In the 1950s, television was not new. It had been developed decades earlier, but it didn't play its first major role in American politics until the mid–1950s.

Broadcasting was still rather embryonic in 1956, when Dwight Eisenhower ran for a second term as president. TV networks didn't fully appreciate the subtleties of camera angles, and politicians hadn't made endless studies about what appeals visually to TV viewers. That was still in the future.

As TV ownership expanded in the 1950s, so did its potential for political influence. But it wasn't until the turbulence of the 1960s that broadcast journalism really began to mature.

The week before the Republicans met in San Francisco to re–nominate Eisenhower, the Democrats met in Chicago to re–nominate the man who lost to Eisenhower in 1952 — Adlai Stevenson.

Broadcasting was still new, as I say. Its practitioners were still learning, but the Stevenson campaign had the right idea. Drama — a compelling story — would attract attention, which would, in turn, attract viewers (and, it was further hoped, those viewers would be voters in November).

The fault lay not with the objective but with the execution.

In modern times, a convention has been an opportunity for a political party to tell the story of its nominee–to–be, but in 1956, both presidential nominees were known quantities.

There was little excitement at either party's convention in August 1956; in part to shake things up, Stevenson announced that he was throwing open the choice of his running mate to the delegates — even though he loudly lamented the marketing of political candidates.

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Bartlet: Can I tell you what's messed up about James Bond?

Charlie: Nothing.

Bartlet: Shaken, not stirred, will get you cold water with a dash of gin and dry vermouth. The reason you stir it with a special spoon is so not to chip the ice. James is ordering a weak martini and being snooty about it.

The West Wing (2002)

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In the eyes of history, that convention is remembered more for launching the national political career of the man who lost the vice presidential nomination, John F. Kennedy, than the man who won it, Estes Kefauver.

Stevenson had the right marketing concept, but he didn't use the right approach. He shook things up. He didn't stir the voters.

In 1956 — and, in fact, until relatively recently — the business of actually nominating running mates occurred on the final scheduled nights of conventions, just before the nominees made their acceptance speeches.

But, on Aug. 16, 1956, Stevenson turned what had been largely a routine matter in the past into an uncontrolled free–for–all that took three ballots to resolve — and his acceptance speech was pushed out of primetime, moving the conclusion of convention business into the early hours of the following day. Viewership for the acceptance speech was, as you might expect, below expectations.

Eisenhower might have won that election, anyway. He had some health issues, but he was a popular president.

Stevenson, as I say, had the right idea, but the execution was flawed. His convention decision didn't help his cause — and that alone was a violation of the admonition to do no harm.

Could the ultimate outcome have been better for Stevenson? Absolutely. The Democrats received less than 42% of the popular vote and carried only seven states. In fact, the Democrats lost Stevenson's and Kefauver's home states.

Could the outcome have been worse? It's hard to see how.

Sargent Shriver Dies

Sargent Shriver died today, and I would be remiss if I didn't mention it.

When I think of Sarge Shriver, I remember the summer of 1972, when Tom Eagleton was forced from the Democratic ticket because he had been treated for depression.

I wasn't very old that summer, and many of the details were really over my head. But I remember how star–crossed George McGovern's presidential campaign seemed. We later learned that much of that was the work of Richard Nixon's "dirty tricks" operatives, but, in truth, McGovern brought much of it on himself. In the Eagleton matter, McGovern asked him to be his running mate without doing a thorough job of conducting a background check, and he paid a price for it.

When McGovern started winning presidential primaries (and there were far fewer of them then than there are now), the other Democrats in the race seemed to gang up on him. As I got older, I came to understand that that was the usual behavior of politicians who realize they were not the people's choice but are reluctant to throw in the towel; at the time, it struck me as unfair, which it was — but that was beside the point.

McGovern survived the challenges to his campaign, but the nominating convention, which should have been his moment in the sun, was acrimonious, and his choice of a vice presidential nominee — for reasons that my young mind could never quite grasp — was hardly treated to the kind of rousing endorsement that presumptive running mates can depend on today.

That convention, conducted in the shadow of the 1968 campaign, when so many things seemed to be done behind closed doors, was wide open, supposedly in the spirit of true democracy, but it wound up being mostly a televised exercise in pure disorganization, utter chaos.

Under the new rules, a few legitimate candidates for the vice presidential slot were allowed to have nominating and seconding speeches made on their behalf; then, during the balloting, delegates were free to cast their votes for anyone they pleased, which led to a circus atmosphere.

As I recall, about three dozen other people received votes from the delegates. Some of the nominees were rather frivolous — both foreign (Mao Tse–tung) and fictional (Archie Bunker) — and no single "candidate" ever seriously threatened to take the nomination away from Eagleton. It was a waste of time and did not give Americans who were watching the proceedings during prime time the impression that the Democrats were organized enough to find solutions to the nation's problems.

By the time Eagleton had been officially nominated and McGovern started making his acceptance speech, it probably wasn't even prime time in Hawaii. Very few people saw McGovern deliver a speech that drew praise from historian Theodore H. White in "The Making of the President 1972."

Anyway, shortly after the convention, the Democrats were rocked by the revelations that Eagleton had been treated for depression and that his treatment had included electroshock therapy.

McGovern insisted that he was standing by his running mate. He was behind Eagleton "1,000%," I believe he said. But the pressure became too great, and, in spite of his public pledge, McGovern asked Eagleton to withdraw, which he did.

And, for awhile there in the summer of 1972, the Democrats had a presidential nominee but no vice presidential nominee. It became a running joke that McGovern was offering the spot to everyone — and everyone was turning it down. The prospect of taking on President Nixon, whose lead in the public opinion polls seemed to be ever growing, was daunting at best.

Accepting the role of running mate was seen as comparable to accepting a ticket on board the Titanic with full knowledge that the ship would strike an iceberg and sink.

But Shriver accepted the role and took on the challenge with considerable gusto — even with the knowledge that Nixon was likely to carry all 50 states, which he very nearly did.

It was Shriver's opportunity to be the "political bride" — he had always regarded himself as a bridesmaid, Teddy White wrote, even though he had done some important things in his life.

At the request of his brother–in–law, President Kennedy, he was the first director of the Peace Corps.

Then, under Lyndon Johnson, he crafted the administration's war on poverty and was responsible for founding several initiatives that I remember my mother particularly appreciated including Head Start.

In fact, between Shriver's work and his wife's work with Special Olympics, they may have been the most successful socially activist couple in modern American history. And now, of course, they're both gone. Eunice Kennedy Shriver preceded Sarge in 2009.

They left behind quite a legacy.

Doc, It Hurts When I Do This ...

Remember that old joke?

A man is having a checkup in his doctor's office. He demonstrates some sort of physical movement that is difficult for him and says, "Doc, it hurts when I do this ..."

And the punchline of the joke is then delivered by the doctor, who tells the patient, "Then don't do that!"

That's the sensation I've been getting this week as I've listened to the speeches at the Republican convention.

The answer to every problem is the political equivalent of "Then don't do that!"

Unfortunately, few of us have the option of not doing that which causes us pain.

Doc, it hurts when I put gas in my vehicle ...

Doc, it hurts when I buy food at the grocery store ...

Doc, it hurts when I pick up my prescription drugs ...

At the Republican convention, the punchline has been "Washington is broken!"

That may well be true. But it carries with it certain implications that the Republicans haven't seemed too anxious to address.

"The problem is that American voters have yet to hear — from John McCain or his warm-up acts — any serious ideas on what, exactly, is wrong with Washington," writes the New York Times, "apart from the fact that a Democrat might win the White House, never mind how to truly fix it."

It's fine for McCain to complain about the "constant partisan rancor" in Washington and to proclaim that "change is on the way!" But if Washington is, indeed, "broken," how much responsibility for that belongs to the Republicans, who have held the White House since January 2001 and controlled Congress from January 1995 until January 2007?

Was it ever reasonable to expect the new Democratic majority in Congress to turn things around in Washington in less than two years?

What I Want to Hear Tonight

Tonight, John McCain accepts the Republican Party's nomination for president.

He is sure to talk about foreign policy — how he feels about the war in Iraq, how he feels about security issues, his personal saga during his service in Vietnam.

We will hear much of McCain's personal story.

Much of it, I've already heard.

Did you hear the news today? The Dow Jones Industrial Average dropped 344.65 points today — that's 3%.

For everything, there is a reason ...

And, in this case, the plunge in the stock market may well be connected to an increase in unemployment claims last week.

"The bad news outweighed a jump in worker productivity and a report showing growth in the nation's service sector," write Howard Schneider and Neil Irwin in the Washington Post.

Michael M. Grynbaum writes, in the New York Times, that some investors will be watching Friday's monthly employment data for clues as to why recessionary concerns that have been lurking for months would have a seemingly sudden impact on the stock market.

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"Speculation focused on fears about the direction of the economy, though it remained unclear why anxieties that have been around for months would suddenly take hold. Some investors said they were worried about the unemployment report for August, which will be released Friday. Economists expect the economy to have shed another 70,000 jobs last month; a worse-than-expected showing would be an ominous sign for the economy’s health in the rest of the year."

New York Times

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In a complex economy, everything is connected.

I know McCain has said that economics isn't his strongest area. But the economy affects average Americans. So, while he's preaching to the choir on Iraq, it would be helpful for voters if McCain set aside a few minutes to talk about unemployment and high prices.

They might not be his biggest applause lines. But McCain's economic strategy is important.

There are voters who are struggling. They need to hear what the Republican who wants to be president intends to do about the economy.

I want to hear what McCain is going to do.

Does he have a plan for stimulating the economy and producing new jobs?

Is he going to rely on a team of economic experts to help him make decisions?

Does he propose a proactive or reactive presidency?

Before the voters go to the polls, they will want answers to these and many other questions.

My Initial Reaction to Palin's Speech

I'm sure I'll have more to say later, but I want to go to bed soon, so I'll just say this about Sarah Palin's speech tonight.

I think she was articulate, charming, entertaining, at times informative — and I think she'll give Joe Biden a run for his money in their Oct. 2 debate.

When she talked about how the people in small-town America "do some of the hardest work in America" — and I grew up in small-town America so I feel I know what she's talking about — I could hear in my head Jimmy Stewart in "It's A Wonderful Life," telling his nemesis that the "rabble" of whom he spoke so disparagingly "do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community."

It was a Frank Capra-esque moment.

And she took aim (figuratively speaking) at criticism of her experience, saying that "a small-town mayor is sort of like a 'community organizer,' except that you have actual responsibilities."

I wrote earlier this week that, having given birth a few months ago to a child with Down syndrome, she could be an advocate for parents of special needs children. She took care of that right away.

But she didn't take the opportunity to address some of my questions.

With the recent revelations about her daughter's pregnancy, Palin has the opportunity to talk about her pro-life views and her belief that unmarried people, particularly unmarried young people, should practice abstinence. She did not discuss those beliefs in her speech.

She also did not speak about her religious views, including her belief that "intelligent design" should be taught in schools.

Right now, I would give the speech a grade of B–.

It was one of the better speeches I've heard given at a political convention in many years.

But it could have been better than it was.

Getting to Know Her

The American public already knew John McCain and Barack Obama pretty well. And Joe Biden's story has been in and out of the news over the years.

But nobody knew much about Sarah Palin until last Friday.

Seems like we're getting a lot of information in a short period of time.

Of course, both sides have been putting out their own spins that are often half-truths.

The Republican spin is that Palin was thoroughly vetted, although that doesn't necessarily appear to be the case.

The Democrats' spin on Joe Biden, to play into Obama's message of "change," is that he's just "Joltin' Joe" from Pennsylvania — even though he's been representing Delaware in the Senate for nearly four decades.

Well, it's been 24 years since Geraldine Ferraro became the first woman to run on a major party's national ticket.

Back in those days, I thought we had dealt with all the issues that went along with nominating a woman for national office. But it seems I was wrong.

I guess the media got a little obsessed, in late summer of 1984, with its inquiries into the financial status of Ferraro's husband. Even though Ferraro had one daughter in her early 20s and another in her late teens when she ran for vice president, I don't recall any public discussions about what Ferraro would do or advise if one of her daughters became pregnant.

But that's the situation that Palin faces right now.

Actually, Ruth Marcus of the Washington Post thinks Bristol Palin's pregnancy is the "ultimate teachable moment."

Marcus observes that "[t]he unwed mother — or at least, the not-yet-wed mother — has become a more common (this is bad) and less shameful (this is good) phenomenon in 21st-century America."

Bristol Palin, apparently, has decided against having an abortion, and she plans on marrying the father of her baby.

That is the outcome that pro-lifers should want when a young woman has an unplanned pregnancy. And Sarah Palin has shown, by giving birth to a child she knew to have Down syndrome, that she is against abortion in her personal life.

She has, in fact, been outspoken in her opposition to abortion. And, it appears, her beliefs about abortion have been passed along to her daughter.

Sarah Palin now has the opportunity to be a national advocate for those who are pro-life. She can encourage women who are carrying babies with a chromosomal disorder, like Down syndrome.

And she can speak from experience about advising an unmarried daughter who becomes pregnant. That's an experience with which many American parents can relate.

The development with her daughter essentially does not change my initial impression of Gov. Palin.

When she was announced as McCain's presumptive running mate, the thing that struck me as remarkable about Palin was how unremarkable she is. (Well, except for the fact that she's a strikingly beautiful woman.)

She never seemed particularly quirky to me. I used to watch the "Northern Exposure" TV series, and she seemed pretty normal, especially when compared to the mostly eccentric residents of the fictional Alaska town of Cicely.

Then I found out that Palin's hometown of Wasilla is quite similar to Cicely. (That may or may not be a good thing, depending upon your opinion of the folks from that make-believe community.)

But many of the things about her would fit in nicely in the real places where I've lived. And with the real people I have known.

When I was a small child, for example, my hometown in Arkansas was about the size of Palin's hometown.

When I was growing up, many of the adults in my life owned guns (as Palin does). Few, if any, of them ever went hunting for moose, but they all took part in the start of deer season.

Palin's favorite dish, I've been told, is moose stew. Many of the people I knew when I was growing up were partial to venison steaks.

Recent inquiries have also uncovered the revelation that Palin's husband was charged with DUI when he was in his early 20s. That apparently is information that Palin voluntarily shared with McCain's vetting team. There is no indication of any ongoing alcohol problem, which probably means Todd Palin was a lot like many of the guys I grew up with. He drank some when he was young, had a brush with the law because of it and learned his lesson.

Abortion was rarely spoken of in my circle of friends, but I knew girls in high school who, like Bristol Palin, had to make a very personal decision. And I'm sure their decisions were influenced, at least to a degree, by any advice they received from their mothers.

Sarah Palin has taken the position that young people need to abstain from sexual activity. As I pointed out earlier, Bristol Palin seems to have embraced much of her mother's personal philosophy. But she doesn't appear to have embraced the part about not embracing.

I was a teenager once, and I agree with Marcus: "[T]alking about abstinence turns out to be easier than abstaining."

Now is Palin's opportunity to explain to the public why she believes abstinence is the best approach. But, given the recent developments, she should be aware that it isn't always a successful strategy.

That really shouldn't surprise anyone. Whether you're a parent or not, you know that parental advice was not always taken when you were a teenager. Has human nature changed since you were Bristol Palin's age?

The fact that Birstol didn't follow her mother's advice does not mean the advice itself wasn't sound — particularly in the modern age, when sexual activity can lead not only to pregnancy but also to an ever-expanding list of diseases — or that the messenger was ineffective.

But there are people who believe that it is naïve to tell young people to abstain. They want to know why Palin believes that is a strategy that can work.

"Being a teenager means taking stupid risks," writes Marcus. "The best, most attentive parenting and the best, most comprehensive sex education won't stop teenagers from doing dumb things. The most we as parents can hope for is to insulate our children, as best we can, from the consequences of their own stupidity."

Sometimes, it's hard to insulate adults, too. That's a question the Republican Party needs to resolve in this matter.

But it's not the only issue the Republicans need to resolve.

Elisabeth Bumiller suggests, in the New York Times, that the Republican vetting process — despite having about a three-month head start on Obama's team — settled on Palin too hastily.

Until only a few days before unveiling Palin as his running mate, Bumiller writes, McCain "was still holding out the hope that he could choose a good friend," like Sen. Joe Lieberman, independent of Connecticut, or former Gov. Tom Ridge of Pennsylvania.

But their pro-choice views precluded their selection. The probability of a revolt within the party was simply too great.

"With time running out," Bumiller writes, McCain "had his first face-to-face interview with her on Thursday and offered her the job moments later."

This week is Palin's opportunity to demonstrate that McCain made a wise choice.

Change of Plans in St. Paul

The St. Paul Pioneer-Press reports that the Republicans have decided to abbreviate Monday's schedule, performing only the tasks that absolutely must be performed as part of the process of nominating the candidates for president and vice president.

They will be monitoring the progress of Hurricane Gustav, which is expected to make landfall in the New Orleans area sometime Monday.

Beyond the adjustment of Monday's schedule, everything else is "optional," according to Rick Davis, who is John McCain's campaign manager. Party officials will monitor events in the Gulf of Mexico and hold daily briefings to advise members of the press of changes in the daily schedule.

Depending upon what happens with the weather, McCain and his running mate, Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin, may have to postpone their acceptance speeches.

Consequently, it appears likely that the 2008 Republican convention will have a different flavor from past conventions — and I'm not just talking about the fact that a woman will be on the ticket.

It's possible that, depending on the circumstances, the Republicans will approve a change in the rules allowing McCain and Palin to give their speeches via video feeds from other locations at a later date.

Thus, the acceptance speeches may not be delivered in front of a convention hall filled with party activists. Perhaps they will be delivered in front of a few hundred supporters — or at a facility housing Gulf Coast evacuees.

It's even possible McCain and Palin won't be in the same city when they give their acceptance speeches.

Wouldn't it be ironic if old man McCain, who admits that there are times when he struggles with modern technology, became the first presidential nominee to deliver his acceptance speech via streaming video?

Radical alterations in the schedule may require the approval of a majority of the delegates, and some of the delegates from states that are expected to be affected by the storm already have left Minnesota, the Pioneer-Press reports.

More Hurricane News

It is about mid-day on Sunday, August 31. The Republican National Convention is scheduled to begin on Monday.

Meanwhile, Hurricane Gustav is churning through the Gulf of Mexico (if you want to see what it looks like from space, see the photograph at right).

According to CNN, President Bush and Vice President Cheney will skip the convention because of the hurricane.

Both men were scheduled to speak to the delegates on Monday night.

CNN reported Saturday night that Republican officials are "considering turning the convention into a service event, a massive telethon to raise money for the Red Cross and other agencies to help with the hurricane."

On the surface, that seems like a generous gesture — although, if it isn't handled correctly, it could be interpreted as a very self-serving move.

CNN also reported last night that four governors whose states are in Gustav's projected path — Bobby Jindal (Louisiana), Haley Barbour (Mississippi), Charlie Crist (Florida) and Rick Perry (Texas) — will skip the convention because of the storm.

Perry had been scheduled to speak on Monday night. Jindal had been scheduled to speak on Wednesday night. Crist was scheduled to speak on Thursday night.

Obama's Challenge

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"We stand at the edge of a New Frontier — the frontier of unfulfilled hopes and dreams. Beyond that frontier are uncharted areas of science and space, unsolved problems of peace and war, unconquered problems of ignorance and prejudice, unanswered questions of poverty and surplus."

Sen. John F. Kennedy,
Democratic presidential candidate,
July 14, 1960 acceptance speech

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In a few hours, Barack Obama will give his nomination acceptance speech.

And when he does, we will live in a new America, one that I wonder if even John F. Kennedy could have imagined on that July night in 1960 — an America in which it is no longer a "dream" (to coopt a word that Dr. Martin Luther King used frequently in his famous speech in Washington 45 years ago today) for a black American to be nominated for president.

(I suspect, however, that, if someone had asked Kennedy which party would be the first to nominate a black for president, he wouldn't have hesitated in saying that the Democrats would be the first to achieve that milestone.)

That's about as much of the American dream as can be pledged to anyone. All Americans are promised the right to participate — not necessarily to succeed.

Success (in any endeavor) depends on things like effort and desire — as well as some things that are beyond an individual's control.

And, while success can be defined as winning the nomination (especially when no one from your demographic group has won the nomination before), a presidential nominee should not be satisfied with that achievement alone.

(It is possible to win a nomination, lose the election, and later be renominated and go on to victory the second time — Richard Nixon proved that when he was elected in 1968 after losing to John F. Kennedy in 1960.

(For that matter, Andrew Jackson was renominated in 1828, four years after losing the first time, and was elected. Grover Cleveland was nominated in three consecutive elections, winning in 1884, losing in 1888, and winning again in 1892 — he's still the only president elected to two non-consecutive terms in office, although he won the popular vote all three times).

(But much more common in the American political experience have been people like Bob Dole, Michael Dukakis and Walter Mondale — candidates who were nominated for president once, lost and were not nominated again. Apparently, John Kerry and Al Gore are destined for that fate as well.)

Tonight's final session of the 2008 Democratic National Convention will be held at Invesco Field, where the Denver Broncos play their football games. The first three sessions of the convention were held indoors at the Pepsi Center, which is home to basketball's Denver Nuggets.

Clearly, the Invesco Field audience will be appreciably larger than the one that greeted Obama's wife on Monday night or Bill and Hillary Clinton for their speeches on Tuesday and Wednesday nights.

The TV audience might well be larger than the others, too, although that (obviously) won't be affected by the venue. The schedule of speakers clearly has something to do with it. According to the Weekly Standard, the Nielsen ratings for the convention revealed that Tuesday night's viewership went up 16% over the previous night.

Based on that, Hillary Clinton was a bigger draw than Michelle Obama.

"Tonight’s Obama-Palooza at Invesco Field should smash all the old records," says the Weekly Standard, "if for no other reason just to see if the Democratic nominee wears a toga to match the Greek columns."

In what is sure to draw comparisons from political observers, Obama's acceptance speech will be the first delivered outdoors by a Democrat since John Kennedy's 1960 acceptance speech — the "New Frontier" speech, as it has come to be known, that Kennedy gave at Los Angeles' Memorial Coliseum.

Former Vice President Al Gore, who was being urged to run for president again nearly a year ago, also is scheduled to deliver a speech tonight.

Obama faces some challenges tonight, as Kennedy did half a century ago.

Kennedy, as a Catholic, had to convince a largely Protestant electorate that he could be trusted. Obama, as the first black presidential nominee, has to do the same with a predominantly white electorate.

Kennedy's challenge differed a bit. In the world of 1960, in which there was a very limited number of political primaries as well as limited private ownership of television sets, it was necessary to use an event like a national convention to introduce himself to the public.

Obama won his nomination in an information-obsessed world — one in which an entire generation of voters has grown up with cell phones, personal computers and cable and satellite TV. It is not as vital to Obama's quest to make introducing himself one of the goals of tonight's speech.

Most viewers will already be familiar with much of Obama's personal story. Many of them will know far less about his positions on the issues.

Of course, like every nominee of the party that is out of power, Obama must present a list of problems that have not been adequately addressed by the incumbent administration.

It won't be enough to say that electing John McCain would mean "four more years of the same." That may be true, but voters need to hear specifics about the problems and what Obama wants to do to correct them.

And that's the "red meat" the delegates want, too.

They need details.

By the way ...

While we're on the subject of details, the Republicans have eagerly used the events of September 11, 2001, for their own political purposes in the last seven years — including their selection of both the location (New York) and timing (early September) of their 2004 national convention.

But the Democrats may have the edge this time when it comes to using that event.

The city of Denver didn't figure prominently in the tragic events of September 11. But the stadium in which Obama will speak tonight was the site of an NFL game for the very first time on Monday night, Sept. 10, 2001 — only a few hours before the hijackings began.

And the team that visited Denver that night was none other than the New York Giants.

(I've often wondered how many conversations about the Giants' 31-20 loss in that game were interrupted the next morning on New York's trains, subways and buses by reports — or actual sightings — of the carnage at the World Trade Center.)

The Republican convention, which is going to be held in St. Paul, Minn., won't lack its own ties to September 11.

Zacarias Moussaoui, who was convicted of being part of the 9-11 conspiracy, had some flight training in Eagan, Minnesota, which is only a few miles from St. Paul.

But, although Moussaoui reportedly was considered by Osama bin Laden for the role of the so-called "20th hijacker," investigations have been able to conclusively determine only that he was a member of al-Qaeda.

While he was convicted on conspiracy charges that related to the 9-11 attacks, apparently, he was rejected as a member of the hijacking teams because he had not yet learned to fly adequately. (As a matter of fact, he already was in custody in Minnesota on the day of the hijackings.)

He is serving his sentence in a federal maximum security prison in Florence, Colo., which is about 100 miles south of Denver.