Losing vs. Losing

Thomas Frank had an interesting op-ed in the Times on Friday, making the point that the constitutional amendment banning gay marriage was not only bound to lose, but was designed to lose, because losing is the only way to reinforce the underlying "narrative" or "pseudopopulist theatre" of the right:

Losing is prima facie evidence that the basic conservative claim is true: that the country is run by liberals; that the world is unfair; that the majority is persecuted by a sinister elite. And that therefore you, my red-state friend, had better get out there and vote as if your civilization depended on it.

This is certainly true. There is no doubt that on gay marriage, the administration at least would rather have the issue than have the ban. That's because they don't actually give a shit what people do; it's just an easy opportunity to stir up some hatred.

But there are different kinds of losing, and I don't think the plan was to get only 48 votes in the Senate. This is hugely significant. The narrative that Frank describes depends on the idea that an elitist minority is blocking the obvious conviction of of most ordinary people that gay marriage is a threat to...something. 48 votes means that the obstacle to the amendment is not that it requires 66 votes in the Senate, and it's not the annoying filibuster rule requiring 60 votes to end debate, it's simply the fact that their majority leader can't deliver the votes of his own Republicans. That's not much of a basis for an electoral crusade. I am pretty sure that if one had asked Rove, Frist, or any of the strategists behind the decision to pursue this issue, "Would you force a vote on this amendment if you thought there was a likelihood you would only get 48 votes?," I'm pretty sure most of them would have said no. It was a huge mistake. To get some benefit from the amendment, they would have to either, win a majority, or win the votes of a few Democrats from swing states in which they currently are running ballot initiatives to ban gay marriage -- for example, Ron Wyden of Oregon, already a profile in cowardice in my view for his support of the Medicare prescription drug bill -- which would legitimate those initiatives and put the Senator in a tough position. But none of this came to pass, and in fact, the most respected Republicans such as McCain instead gave credibility to the idea that conservatives could oppose the amendment.

Early in the time when I worked in the Senate, during the first Bush administration, I once put together an amendment for my boss, an elaborate proposal to take part of the cost of a tax bill, and convert it into spending on urban problems. We knew we would lose, but just wanted to make a point that the bill was skewed in favor of business tax breaks. But because there were a dozen reasons for Senators to oppose Senator Bradley's amendment -- it violated budget rules, it might not benefit their districts, etc. -- I think we got 17 votes. When I got back to my office from the Senate floor that afternoon, a colleague teased me mercilessly: it was fine to offer an amendment just to make a point. But when he did it, he made sure he could get 30 or 35 votes. That's what you needed to make a point. If you only got 16 votes, it meant you just hadn't done a good job and no one would take you or your boss seriously. Of course, he was right. And the threshold for being taken seriously and making a point, as the party in power on an issue that supposedly has majority support, is not 30 votes or 48, but a very solid majority.

But perhaps I take these minutiae of the Senate process too seriously. After all, if no one knows anything about them, they can't have much impact in the outside world, can they?