Gov. Rick Perry (R-Texas) says the Supreme Court was wrong to knock down a Texas law that criminalized "homosexual conduct."
Dan Hirschhorn reports that former Sen. Rick Santorum (R-Penn.) is continuing to hammer likely GOP presidential candidate Rick Perry on gay marriage—even after the Texas governor announced that he would support an effort to ban gay marriage nationwide:
"When someone who is a serious candidate for president is doing things that will be destructive not just for the Republican Party, but for the country, I'm going to point that out any chance I get," Santorum told POLITICO.
Santorum is upset, or at least pretend campaign-upset, that Perry told Colorado GOPers in July that New York's decision to legalize gay marriage was their right. "That's New York, and that's their business, and that's fine with me.”
But next to Santorum, Perry might be the least lgbt-friendly candidate in the race. More so than former Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich, who warns we face an existential threat from "gay and secular fascism"; more so, even, than Rep. Michele Bachmann, who once feared that the Lion King would corrupt children because its soundtrack was created by Elton John.
So what exactly has Perry done? Well, for one, he is (still) a supporter of the Texas "homosexual conduct" statute, an archaic law that made it a crime for two consenting, unrelated adults to have sex if they were of the same gender. The law was ruled unconstitutional by the Supreme Court in the landmark 2002 case Lawrence v. Texas, but, despite repeated efforts, Texas has yet to formally repeal the statute. When Perry was asked about the Lawrence case in 2002, he defended the anti-sodomy statute: "I think our law is appropriate that we have on the books." He wrote about the case in his 2011 book Fed Up, too, citing the Lawrence decision as the product of "nine oligarchs in robes" and an example of what's wrong with our judicial system. And last spring, when Perry ran for his third full term as governor, he did so on a state GOP platform that exlicitly stated "we oppose the legalization of sodomy."
The irony is that the Lawrence case was the impetus for Santorum's famous comparison of gay sex to "man on dog" relations—which, in turn, was the impetus for Santorum becoming, well, "santorum." He can try to carve out some space to the right of Rick Perry on this issue, but there's really not that much room.
The words "work makes free"—a somewhat-garbled translation of the words that hung above the entrance to the Nazi-run concentration camp Auschwitz—are shown across the screen in a scene from the movie Guinea Pig Kids.
In a 2002 film highlighting her work as an education activist, Michele Bachmann endorsed the argument of her colleague, Michael Chapman, who claimed that state and federal education reforms were leading the United States toward its own Holocaust. Minnesota's new curriculum standards, Bachmann contended, were going to "undermine our freedom and undermine our national sovereignty" and turn children into "global citizens." The "brave new world" Chapman warned about, she said, wouldn't be far behind.
Before Bachmann served in the Minnesota state Senate, led the tea party caucus in the House of Representatives, or ran for president, she worked as an education activist with a conservative group called the Maple River Education Coalition (MREC). Together with Chapman, Bachmann criss-crossed Minnesota, speaking to church groups and warning them about the dire consequences of state and federal education reform.
In the middle of all of this, Bachmann and Chapman made a movie.
Guinea Pig Kids is not, as its name might suggest, a B-list horror film. The impetus for the film was the Profile of Learning, a set of state curriculum standards adopted by Republican Gov. Arne Carlson's administration in 1998. To Bachmann and Chapman, the standards were nefarious and part of a a far-reaching globalist plot.
As Bachmann and Chapman explained, a little-known federal program called Goals 2000, initiated under the Clinton administration but consistent with a similar plan supported by President George H.W. Bush, was paving the way for a national curriculum. The new curriculum, the two speakers maintained, moved the state away from established truths like the supposedly Christian founding documents, and replaced them with secular documents, such as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, that allowed the state to craft its own set of values. Guinea Pig Kids was designed to explain "Minnesota's new centrally-planned education, workforce & economic system and how citizens are trying to reverse it." Over the course of the film's two hours, Bachmann and Chapman did just that.
Congress is out of session in August, which means that America's senators and representatives are touring their home states and districts, meeting with constituents at town hall forums. It is an American tradition of sorts, in which constituents attempt to make the case that Washington politicians are irresponsible, uncivil, and ill-suited for the task of governing—by yelling insults and shouting really loudly while other people are talking, sometimes at the behest of corporate astroturf groups. Democracy!
To wit: Josh Marshall flags this gem from Arizona Sen. GOP John McCain's event earlier this week:
Kelly Townsend, a Gilbert resident and member of the Greater Phoenix Tea Party, demanded that McCain apologize for a comment made last month on the Senate floor about "tea party hobbits."
As well he should; the more apt Lord of the Rings/debt ceiling analogy would have been to this scene. Continuing on:
Tea-party activists called McCain "out of touch" when the senator said he didn't know about United Nations "Agenda 21."One man described the initiative as a "takeover of the United States of America by taking over our farms."
"First, our firearms, then our farms," another man added.
McCain said no Congress would allow that to happen, but that didn't satisfy several in the room who subscribed to the theory.
As it happens, "hobbit" is an especially sensitive term for tea partiers for reasons that go well beyond name-calling (they prefer "halfling," I believe). As I explained last week, a not insignificant number of conservatives (including, to a certain degree at least, Michele Bachmann), believe that the federal government has basically handed over our future sovereignty to the United Nations through a treaty called Agenda 21. Never mind that the agreement, which broadly outlined a number of goals to promote sustainable development, was never ratified by Senate; the fear is that rural Americans will be booted from their land and forced to, as Bachmann put it, "move to the urban core, live in tenements, [and] take light rail to their government jobs." (David Samuels captured this fear quite well in his piece on the Montana bison reserve.)
So what would these urban dwellings look like? Some activists speculate that we will be forced to live in what London mayor Boris Johnson calls "hobbit homes." He means this is in a nice way, of course—ultra-sustainable dwellings that make use of the natural environment and would probably be quite comfortable, provided they’re built to scale; think some sort of combination of an Earthship and Bilbo Baggins' Bag End. But Johnson's description may have been a poor choice of words, and the anti-Agenda 21 activists have taken off with it. Unbeknownst to McCain, his use of the "h-word" hit a particularly sore spot for tea partiers.
Anyways, this all sounds kind of loopy—and it is—but it's worth keeping in mind that these views are entrenched among many on the far-right. Bachmann warned against Agenda 21 as a state senator; Glenn Beck brought the issue to Fox News; it's yet another way in which their ascendance marks a mainstreaming of the fringe.
Back in February of 2010, as he was cruising to a primary victory over Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchison, Texas Governor Rick Perry was asked point-blank whether he would serve out his term if re-elected—or whether he consider throwing his 40-gallon hat in the presidential race. He was unequivocal: Nothing short of an untimely death could drive him out of Austin. "I have a lot of faith in the Lord I hope he's gonna let me live for four years and if he does I'm gonna serve out my governorship," Perry explained.
Rick Perry intends to use a speech in South Carolina on Saturday to make clear that he's running for president, POLITICO has learned.
According to two sources familiar with the plan, the Texas governor will remove any doubt about his White House intentions during his appearance at a RedState conference in Charleston.
It's uncertain whether Saturday will mark a formal declaration, but Perry's decision to disclose his intentions the same day as the Ames straw poll — and then hours later make his first trip to New Hampshire — will send shock waves through the race and upend whatever results come out of the straw poll.
The lesson, as always, is you should never trust anyone who "goes jogging in the morning packing a Ruger .380 with laser sights and loaded with hollow point bullets and shoots a coyote that is threatening his daughter’s dog."
More seriously, this announcement, which we've been speculating about for months, does stand to dramatically shake up the GOP race. Perry is the decade-long governor of the largest red state in the country and he's coming off a headline-grabbing revival meeting at a football stadium in Houston. His state's economy is less terrible than that of the rest of the country's and he should have access to the deep, deep pockets of folks like Swift Boat funder Bob Perry (no relation). There are many good reasons for why he might fall flat. But don't mistake the smirking, slow-talking governor for a—what's the word?—flake. Just ask Hutchison.
Ryan Lizza's excellent profile of Rep. Michele Bachmann (R-Minn.), which I mentioned earlier, frames the GOP presidential candidate as the product of a very particular brand of Christian conservative thought—one that extends far beyond the basic abortion–gay marriage axis. To wit: Lizza catches Bachmann touting the work of an historian who argued that the Confederacy was actually an Evangelical state that was raising blacks up from the depths of heathenism to a more even moral foundation. But the most interesting character in the profile is Dr. Francis Schaeffer, a theologian whose film, How Should We Then Live, Bachmann cites as life-changing.
As it happens, I've watched Schaeffer's movie (or at least much of it), and it's easy to see how various aspects of it rubbed off on Bachmann, then a student at Minnesota's Winona State University. The timing was fortuitous—America's heartland was emptying out and its urban cores seemed to be falling into disrepair. Schaeffer stepped in to make sense of the situation and prescribe a miracle cure: We could turn things around by learning from the mistakes of the past and getting back to our Christian roots. Take a look at the introductory segment, for instance:
That opening scene is scary, right? Those police sirens you hear are the sound of secular humanism in action. Schaeffer's arguing, essentially, that a relativistic society, built on a lesser belief system like that of the Roman gods, can do quite well when times are good and everyone's happy. But when things begin to head south, such societies lack the necessary fortitude to fight vice, and give in to their basest impulses—sex (Schaeffer goes on to discuss the "cult of the phallis" in Pompeii) and dependency (relying on government handouts).
As Lizza notes, things get downright conspiratorial: "In the sixth episode, a mysterious man in a fake mustache drives around in a white van and furtively pours chemicals into a city's water supply, while Schaeffer speculates about the possibility that the U.S. government is controlling its citizens by means of psychotropic drugs." That reflects an extreme level of distruct of government—but then, so does suggesting that we are locked in a United Nations plot to end resource extraction entirely, and warning that a moderate Democratic president will launch "re-education camps" for our children.