By Kevin D. Williamson
Tuesday, October 15, 2019
One enduring thing of value that ought to come out of the
Trump administration — ought, but apparently won’t — would be to
finally drive a stake into the heart of these deathless twin superstitions:
that the skills and talents that enable success in a particular kind of
business are infinitely transferable to other profit-seeking and nonprofit
enterprises alike, and that the formula for success in governing a democratic
republic is to “run the country like a business.”
Our political lexicon does not have a precise term for
this theory of benevolent plutarchy.
Call it CEO-cracy.
Ceocracy is mostly a stupid rhetorical tic. No one,
including successful businessman-politicians such as former Florida governor
Rick Scott (who has a real weakness for that kind of rhetoric) actually tries
to run a government as though it were a business — because that’s nuts. Rick
Scott didn’t run Florida’s government like he was a CEO — he ran it like he was
Rick Perry.
Businesses measure their success in profit. Governments
don’t. Businesses offer products and services in exchange for money in voluntary
transactions. Governments don’t. Businesses that fail go bankrupt and are
disbanded (except for politically sensitive banks, automobile companies, steel
producers, farmers . . .) while failed governments keep right on misgoverning
in the city and state of New York, in Illinois, in New Jersey, in California,
in Connecticut, in the District of Columbia, in Austin, and abroad. Businesses
have customers. Governments don’t. Those who profess their desire to “run
government like a business” most often mean that they seek to achieve a higher
degree of administrative excellence and bureaucratic accountability than
Americans are used to seeing from their governments. But that isn’t running
government like a business — that’s running government like . . . Swiss government.
American Airlines is a business, too. Does anybody take
that dysfunctional organization as a metric of success?
Other people mean other things. Some of them conflate the
bottom-line approach to business management with the need for fiscal
responsibility in government. Jerry Falwell Jr., the craven political
opportunist who somehow has managed to besmirch the name “Jerry Falwell,” said
this about Donald Trump: “What earns him my support is his business acumen. Our
country was so deep in debt and so mismanaged by career politicians that we
needed someone who was not a career politician, but someone who’d been
successful in business to run the country like a business.” Deep in debt,
indeed: The United States has added nearly $1 trillion in public debt since
Falwell spoke those words . . . ten months ago. Trump is running the country
like a business — unfortunately, the business he is running it like is one of
those debt-ridden casinos he mismanaged.
Trump’s 2016 presidential campaign may have been the apex
of American ceocracy so far — keep an eye on Michael Bloomberg, though, along
with Howard Schultz and a few others. Marc Benioff, the billionaire founder of
Salesforce, has been testing the political waters for a while now, most
recently with an Elizabeth Warren–esque indictment of capitalism in the New
York Times in which he calls for a “new capitalism,” as though the
collective economic behavior of human beings in the free world were something
that a guy in an office somewhere could just reorganize after a couple of
lunches with top-shelf consultants.
But ceocracy is an ancient American superstition. Donald
Trump’s great stroke of political genius was running Ross Perot’s ceocratic
1992 independent campaign inside the Republican party rather than as a
third-party alternative. Perot, too, promised to run the affairs of the country
“like a business.”
In the Nineties, when the cult of the executive was
riding high, both Republicans and Democrats made noises about attempting to
recruit Microsoft founder Bill Gates as a presidential candidate. Gates, to his
credit, preferred philanthropy with his own money to the excitement of bribing
people with their own money and then acting as though he had done them a favor.
The self-professed American “nationalists” of our own
daffy political moment echo those of an earlier generation who hoped to move
Henry Ford into the White House. Ford was briefly a candidate, and his rhetoric
foreshadowed Trump’s with occasionally startling exactness: He called himself
“a builder” and boasted that he’d defend the “average man” against the corrupt
elites in Washington.
But the country is not a vast assembly line, and neither
is its government.
And, as it turns out, the war in Syria is only
tangentially about real estate.
“Run the government like a business” means different
things to different people. Donald Trump has one idea of it, Marc Benioff has
another, and Michael Bloomberg no doubt has another still. American businessmen
are not a philosophically homogeneous lot. And the best of them understand the
severe limitation of the notion of running the government as though it were a business.
What this is really about is bureaucracy and its
troubles.
Americans do not care much for bureaucracy, to the extent
that the word bureaucracy itself functions as a pejorative. But an
excellent bureaucracy is a wonder to behold. It was a first-rate bureaucracy
that put a man on the moon and brought him back safely. Dwight Eisenhower was
one of the outstanding bureaucrats of his generation, a man who did a long and
dreary apprenticeship as an administrative functionary before being anointed
“supreme commander.” Bureaucracy matters in the business world, too: Administrative
excellence and not technological innovation is what distinguishes Amazon from
its would-be competitors, whereas dealing with your health-insurance company or
your mobile-phone provider is in most cases a lot like a trip to the department
of motor vehicles.
Americans, with our heroic self-conception, valorize
swashbuckling entrepreneurs, and we take that as our presumptive model of
leadership. Satya Nadella is deeply admired within Microsoft, but he will never
be the object of adoration that Bill Gates once was — and even if the
Indian-born Nadella were eligible for the presidency, his is not a name to
conjure with. Microsoft was a mature company when Nadella took over in 2014,
and the value of the firm has more than trebled on his watch. That is a remarkable
achievement, but not one that inspires the kind of hero-worship that
accompanies larger-than-life founders and agonists on the model of Steve Jobs.
But if we are, for the sake of the example only, to take
business as our template, then there would be much to recommend a Nadella-style
presidency in which a going concern and market leader builds on its real
strengths and enjoys remarkable growth and prosperity under management so
intelligent and capable that nobody would ever even think of writing an epic
poem about it.
There are many admirable figures in American business,
and some of them no doubt would have much to offer American government,
including at sub-presidential levels: Rex Tillerson did not have a very
successful run as secretary of state, but he wasn’t obviously unsuited
to the job, and his main problem seems to have been his inferior superiors.
Republicans criminally underused Carly Fiorina. Bloomberg was a pretty good
mayor, and New York City has suffered under less capable leadership. Mark
Zuckerberg might make an excellent spy chief.
But the argument that a billionaire’s billions are a
self-evident credential for national leadership is modern primitivism at its
purest. It is a superstition that we would do well to leave behind.
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