That support for impeachment didn’t move from 50 per cent to 60 per cent or more in the aftermath of the impeachment hearings doesn’t surprise me. What does is the assertion that these numbers are baked in and that the upper limit in support for impeachment has been reached. It’s too early to arrive at that conclusion.

I like to think of the impeachment process as a breaking dam and we are seeing the first flush of Trump’s criminality pouring out into public view in a new way. The hearings were a major moment in this process, but there is more to come, not least the formal impeachment document in December and the impeachment trial early next year. In the meantime, fresh disclosures and revelations of the misdeeds of Trump and all will continue to see the light of day. Things are fluid.

Politics becomes an art in present circumstances, much like it was at other grave moments in our country’s history, not least at the time of the Civil War. What this means, among other things, is that reflexive, small circle, comfort zone thinking should be retired by all who see Trump as a clear and present danger.

Racism – exploitation and super-exploitation, oppression, and ideology – is a constant and defining feature of U.S. historical development from nearly the moment of arrival of colonizing settlers to what would become North American shores in the 17th century. Indeed, it is fair to say that every aspect of the country’s historical process has been deeply and indelibly marked by racism, which obviously is more, indeed much more than a prejudice toward people based on their skin color.

But while racism and racial inequality have been essential cornerstones to the country’s development as well as the guarantor of political, economic, and cultural hegemony of its white ruling elites, the racialized structures, institutions, legal framework, language, symbols, mode of accumulation and exploitation, and, not least, the terrain and trajectory of racist and anti-racist struggle, have changed over time. In this sense slavery is not so much the “original sin” of our country as the first racial (or racist) order, albeit the most searing, brutal, and exploitative one, that took root at the pre-dawn and dawn of the country’s formation, stretched out over two and a half centuries, and co-evolved with contemporaneous racial orders during that time.

It also left its distinctive mark on racial orders that followed to this day. While it never formally announces its presence in contemporary life, it, nevertheless, stubbornly and persistently insinuates itself at the level of ideology and practical politics and economics.

Which brings to mind the words of William Faulkner, the great novelist of the South, who wrote, “The past is never dead, it’s not even past.”

It was a different era and nearly everything was shifting to the right. That basketball reflected this shift in its own unique ways comes as no surprise. Craig Hodges, if you read the story, went against the grain and paid a price.  It took guts

Friday night in my twenties and early thirties was bar night. In Old Saybrook, Ct. we hung out at the Monkey Farm. The Farm was filled with memorable characters, including Tommy and Harry, the two owners. And, of course, there was Bronko, who bedded down upstairs. Later in Portland, Me. where I moved with a group of back-to-landers and communards, we were regulars at the Beer Barrel in the city’s West End, an old Irish neighborhood where most people struggled to make ends meet. There too the patrons were unforgettable and younger for the most part. Some worked at a baked bean factory across town where I also earned my meager wages. Both bars had a juke box and tvs that featured the biggest sports game of the week. Needless to say, I as well as my friends had no trouble fitting in and holding our own. Aside from nursing regular hangovers that go with an extended stay at a watering hole on a Friday night, the only other problem was that by weekend’s end I had little left from my paycheck for the rest of the week.

These days my drinking prowess is greatly diminished, although from time to time I like to visit local bars in Kingston. In fact, I will do precisely that on Dec. 19. On that day my father was born and I mark the occasion each year with a pilgrimage to a watering hole. In this case, Snapper McGee’s is my joint of choice. Snappers is notable for its regulars, a dart board, and, what is rare these days, an old juke box with a great selection of tunes. It also stays open til 4am, but long before then I will be gone and home in bed. But before taking my leave, I will drink a couple of pints of beer and a shot or two of whiskey as well as find a tune by the late great Nat King Cole to play in my father’s honor. He loved NKC almost as much as the beer and “hard stuff” that he drank too much of Friday night when he arrived home after a long week climbing high tension poles crisscrossing the state of Maine. Not an easy gig, and he believed, I guess, it earned him a drink or two or three or … It seldom ended up in a good place, but that is another story.