Yesterday we explored why you freemium folks should upgrade to premium. (Many thanks to those who did!) Today I thought we’d take a harrowing journey into the events and influences that made your humble correspondent who he is.
I realize that some people think I was created by ethically challenged scientists in an off-planet lab. But David Dowd Muska was, in fact, born to a man and woman, here on Earth. Grew up in Broad Brook, Connecticut. It’s a borough of a rural town, and my folks are still there. Two older sisters, and as you might imagine with Irish-Slovak ancestry, day-to-day life was dominated by family and The Catholic Church. And canines. My paternal grandfather, right next door, had a veritable army of huntin’ dogs — foxhounds and beagles and coonhounds.
My father, and his father, in the 1950s. Back then, the dogs on the property numbered in the hundreds.
My mother valued reading almost above oxygen. She took us to the library. A lot. I suppose that’s where I learned to do research. Good thing — my adult life certainly wasn’t going to involve sports. (Zero athletic ability.) Or art. (No creativity.) Or healthcare. (Ick.)
Books and dogs — nothing’s changed since the mid-1970s.
Sharon Muska was an avid follower of current affairs, and that required regular viewings of Agronsky & Co., Washington Week in Review, This Week with David Brinkley, and the like. At first, I made fun of her for watching programs in which people “yelled at each other” nonstop. But over the years, I wore down, and started watching alongside her. Was introduced to a few pundits I respected (George Will, Pat Buchanan, James J. Kilpatrick) and a few I didn’t (Carl Rowan, Elizabeth Drew, Sam Donaldson). Perhaps that sealed my fate.
But my father’s role in fostering my skepticism of the “public” sector shouldn’t be ignored. In 1984, Tom Muska left white-collar work (it never was a good fit) to start an apple orchard on our family’s property. That meant hard labor, and plenty of it — while dealing with meddlesome bureaucrats of all manner. My father was not, and is not, a fan of the men and women living off the fruits of those engaged in what he calls “real output and wealth production.” Neither am I.
As I got more and more interested in politics, obviously I saw myself as a conservative Republican. I went south to get a degree in “political science” in D.C., then a job with the GOP. However, the more I learned about elected officials, campaigns, and lobbying, the less I wanted to do with that world. An internship at the Media Research Center taught me the difference between politics and policy, and by the time I picked up the sheepskin, Potomac Fever had given way to Potomac Disgust.
Always good advice.
I began grown-up-hood by walking away from politics, and turning toward policy research/writing. Being totally free from partisanship allowed me to go where principles and the data lead, and not tritely mouth the shibboleths of my tribe. (Ever met an anti-abortion liberal? Ever met a pro-Palestinian conservative?)
Plus, I was turning libertarian.
I still agreed with conservatives’ perspectives on taxes and regulations. (And still do.) But the more I studied the Pentagon, the “War on Drugs,” and civil liberties, the more I began to see that the right has its own Big Government problem. Having abandoned the Republican Party, it was now time to quit conservatism.
Fortunately for me, the 1990s and early 2000s was an era of impressive growth in state-level policy shops dedicated to advancing limited government. The focus was fighting “environmentalists” and exposing government unions and ending corporate welfare, and I quickly found a home. I worked for two think tanks (one in Nevada, and another back home in Connecticut), and did freelance writing, and radio, on the side.
Then, in 2004, The Boy was born.
If you don’t love Harry the Dirty Dog, something is very wrong with you.
I always hated children, but when my sister gave birth, that changed. A little. Uncle Dee-Dee and The Boy became, to put it mildly, close. The 11 years I spent raising that beautiful child — entirely on my own, no help from anyone — were the happiest of my life.
My nephew was a bit on the spectrum (with a IQ close to 200), and needed to develop at his own pace. Eventually his mother found a Waldorf school, and he thrived. (He’s off to college next year.) It’s one thing to advocate school choice in theory, but another to see it work — spectacularly well — in practice.
Among the many things we have in common, we both drink whole milk.
By 2015, The Boy had scant time for the adults in his life (school, friends, Taekwondo, starting what would eventually become his rock band), my last grandparent had died, my dog had died, and I was in my 40s. I needed to make a change. So I moved to New Mexico, where I had spent a year “finding myself” right after college. No career reboot for me. I’m still fighting collectivism, primarily through two mechanisms: No Dowd About It and a fellowship with the Southwest Public Policy Institute.
Life’s much simpler these days. Having passed 50 this summer, most of the stress and anger and regret have faded away. I set my own schedule, answer to no one, and can focus on my work and my health.
In the background, Blanquita Lada Penelope Melisandre Muska-Rossi, First of Her Name, The Khaleesi of Korrales, Rightful Ruler of the Bosque, Swimmer of the Great Southwest River, The Whitefish; the photobomber is Kalina Vickie Lynn Rossi, First of Her Name, Collector of Toys, The White Whiz, Kissy Monster, The Arizonan.
And “my” dogs. It’s complicated (not at all dramatic, just complicated), but I’m the “minority owner” of two healthy, beautiful English Cream golden retrievers. (Big Sister is a therapy dog who counsels mental-health clients.) I’m with my girls every morning and most of the day Saturdays.
There you have it — the life and times of D. Dowd Muska. Not enough room for everything (e.g., the time I ghostwrote an op-ed for Walter Mondale), but I hit the highlights.
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