It Came From . . . 1997

“The only good bug is a dead bug.” – Starship Troopers

Grok™ is getting better – this was a first attempt, and normally it requires a lot of wrestling.

OT:  probably a Saturday song will drop tomorrow morning.  I’ve got three more in can and think that two of the three are the best so far.  I may even drop one on Sunday.  We’ll see.  Going forward I’m going to target dropping songs on Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.  As I’ve just started, there seem to be an endless spring of ideas that I’ve been hoarding up my whole life, and I’m enjoying making them come to life.  Oddly, I’m my new favorite artist.  Working on distribution, still on a steep learning curve.

Once again, were’ back.  The high of the 1980s is far in the rearview mirror.  Now we’re on the long slope down.  Still, there were some fun movies.  These aren’t necessarily the best movies of 1997, instead they’re the films I think really exemplify the year.  As always, they’re in no particular order.

Waiting for Guffman – This is an ensemble comedy where I think the plan was that you have a basic plot and you let the talented, goofy people making the movie fill in the details.  Silly?  Yes.  Life changing?  No.  One thing from this particular movie that I find very sad is that the opening scene shows the local cops planning on having sniper overwatch for a local harvest festival in a small Missouri town.  It was funny in 1997 because it was absurd.  In 2025 it’s not.  I guess that’s just the price we pay for ethic food.  I wonder why we didn’t import only the recipes?

Austin Powers:  International Man of Mystery – Mike Myers creates a parody of a James Bond® film.  The particular genius is that the plot is just strong enough to hold everything together and not get in the way of the comedy.  The box office was quadruple the cost, so that worked out okay for Mike.  Bonus points for lovingly parodying the details of the Bond™ films, such as naming a female character Allota Fagina.  Sadly, this caused the James Bond© producers to make the Bond® films less fun by hiring Daniel Craig.

Breakdown – There is nothing special about this movie other than it is a very competent thriller that couldn’t be made in the time of cell phones.  Kurt Russell is good, and J.T. Walsh is suitably evil.  Cinematic popcorn.

Men in BlackThe X-Files™ was pretty big during this time period, so Hollywood decided to make a big budget science fiction comedy based on a fringe UFO topic.  I was this many years old when I found out it was also based on a comic book. It made nearly $600 million 1997 bucks, which would have topped the box office for the year except for that pesky Titanic.

Contact – This was a decent movie, though not one where I look forward to seeing it again.  It was decent, not great.  Plot summary:  aliens send us Hitler pics and instructions on how to build a wormhole.

Air Force One – More cinematic popcorn, where president Han Solo tries to kill Count Dracula on an airplane.  Silly action fun.

Event Horizon – My favorite movie on this list.  Huge critical and commercial failure and yet they nearly made a TV series based on it before COVID came along.  Evil Scientist Sam Neill?  Yes, please.  If you like cosmic horror and haven’t seen it, you’ve been missing out.  Warning:  it’s not for the faint-hearted.

Kull the Conqueror – Robert E. Howard was the creator of Conan the Barbarian, and also Kull.  This is based around his work, and was originally intended to be the third part of the Conan movie trilogy, but that fell apart.  I’m glad.  This movie is comfy and is its own thing.  I loved it, and am perhaps the only one, since it only made $6 million on a $35 million budget.  I guess I would suck as a test audience member.

L.A. Confidential – It came out in 1997, but I hadn’t seen it until recently.  It’s a decent film noir, and Guy Pearce does a great job as a smart, young cop eager to get ahead.  Huge hit, but I avoided it because I loathe Kim Basinger, who strikes me as a person with the intelligence of a basset hound.

Wishmaster – So an evil genie lives in a ruby.  In one scene, the camera penetrates they gem, showing that it contains a vast cavern throne room inside the gem.  In the cavern, it moves towards a dark, demonic figure sitting on the throne.  During the scene, when the camera finally centered on the genie’s face, I said, “Just sitting ‘round, being evil,” and The Mrs. laughed uncontrollably.  That’s now a family catchphrase.  Other than that, I don’t remember anything about this movie.

Boogie Nights – This is a very good movie, showing how the depravity, drugs, and money of the porn world lead only to pain and dejection, but I’m sure OnlyFans® will turn out differently.  Plus?  Stark nekkid Heather Graham.  Okay, I have contradictory motivations here.  Also, one of Burt Reynolds’ best serious roles.

RocketMan – Cost $16 million to make, made $15.4 million.  It was hilarious.  The underappreciated Harland Williams plays an accidental astronaut whose space hijinks include space farts.  It’s stupid-funny, so if you like adolescent humor, this is your show.

Bean – Rowan Atkinson is an engineer with a master’s degree and also a master of comedy.  Who says engineers don’t have a sense of humor?  Oh, and this film made $250,000,000.

The Devil’s Advocate – Soooooo much overacting in this horror movie which could have also been titled “Al Pacino’s Vocal Coach Is Seventeen Packs of Cigarettes a Day.”  No real desire to watch this one again – it’s not a great horror movie, but everyone liked it, because the boxoffice of $153,000,000 was nearly triple the cost.

Gattaca – This movie is about the dangers of genetic engineering on the future, where it creates a society where beautiful, healthy people are everywhere and bad genes are bred out.  The horror!

Starship Troopers – Whenever this movie comes up in the comment section everyone argues about it.  Every time.  Was director Paul Verhoeven trying to make Robert Heinlein look like a fascist and make the humans as the bad guys?  Yes.  Did almost everyone miss that?  Also yes.  To try to make fun of Heinlein, he had to actually quote Heinlein, which backfired in a big way.  Heinlein’s ideas in the book Starship Troopers are pretty powerful, but also simple.  They glimmered through Verhoeven’s attempt to make a woke film, which counts for most of the good parts of the film.  But the other fascist elements he added for the parody boomeranged on him to such an extent that all of the GloboLeft critics he wanted to please by making fun of the TradRight thought Verhoeven was a fascist.  I guess he sure showed the TradRight by being pro-human rather than loving bugs.  My verdict?  The only good things (which are very good) are the parts from the book.  The rest is mediocre at best.

Once again, I was surprised on how many movies I liked from this year.  Almost every movie is beautiful, but the attempts are being made to push the GloboLeft agenda even further, which is (along with foreign markets) what eventually choked Hollywood.  I’m debating if we’ll do 1998, and if so, that’ll be in February.

What did I miss?

Morning Metal: One Shot

Latest effort.  This was an attempt to use a battle from the Franco-Prussian War as an allegory that humanity has only one shot to succeed.

Fortunately, I have more than one song.  Hope you enjoy.

I’ll see if I can figure out a way to distribute these easily.

One Shot
By John Wilder

Ninety-one days from Sedan…
The Prussian lines stood silent in the mist
One order rang out: “Charge!”
One heartbeat… one charge… one shot at glory.

From cave to plow, from fire to steel
We clawed our way up history’s wheel
The coal is thin, the oil runs dry
The easy age has bled us dry

There is no second dawn, no second spring
The clock strikes once, then silence rings
All we built, all we bled
Hangs on the moment straight ahead

Chorus
One shot at glory – fire or fall!
One heartbeat roaring – answer the call!
Coiled like a spring, now is the spark
Live like a king or die in the dark

One shot! One shot!
Glory or the grave!

We are the sons of a billion years
Forged in the dust of vanquished fears
The stars don’t wait, the void won’t bend
This is the charge – this is the end

No retreat, no slow decay
The guns are loaded, the skies are gray
Fix bayonets, bare your teeth
Immortal or dead in the smoke beneath

Chorus
One shot at glory – fire or fall!
One heartbeat roaring – answer the call!
Coiled like a spring, now is the spark
Live like a king or die in the dark

One shot! One shot!
Glory or the grave!

Hear the drums of Mars ascending
Iron boots on iron ground
Every empire, every life
Comes down to this single sound

Forward!

No tomorrow if we fail tonight

Forward!

Into the breach, into the light!

One shot at glory – seize or be slain!
One war-cry thundering through every vein!
The moment is here, the die is cast
Take control of the sky or be dust of the past

One shot! One shot!
Glory or the grave!
One shot! One shot!

This is the day we break the chains!

Charge… for glory… and the universe

Will be ours . . .

 

Fresh Hot Memes, The Best In Town!

No podcast, The Mrs. has an appointment.  Instead, enjoy these hand-picked memes.  Maybe a song tomorrow morning.  We’ll see.

We start with five memes of Franklin, the beloved character from books meant for little kids.  I used to watch the Franklin cartoon with my eldest son. It was a simple cartoon where Franklin kept getting into moral dilemmas fit for a five-year-old to digest, like waterboarding.

The opening lyrics were something like:
Hey, it’s Franklin,
Comin’ to your house

Being me, I couldn’t stop thinking that it would have sounded better if it was:
Hey, it’s Franklin, 
Comin’ to kill you 

So, the Secretary of War X’d out this, which led to a backlash from the creator, which led to . . . a meme explosion. Maybe he heard the opening theme the same way I did?

Here’s a page with all the meme’s I’ve collected:

The Franklin Files

Now back to the usual memes:

 

 

The Simpsons, Radioactive Potato Salad, And Running Out Of Electricity

“I have become death, destroyer of worlds.” – Andromeda

Had Oppenheimer been a theoretical physicist he would have been frictionless, perfectly spherical, homogeneous, isotropic, involuntarily celibate, and have extended to infinity in all directions.  I guess one out of seven isn’t bad.

You know, Oppenheimer probably didn’t realize that his little gadget would one day power cat videos on YouTube®. But yet, here we are, preparing to stare down the barrel of an energy crisis that makes the 1970s oil embargo look like a minor hiccup at the gas pump.

America’s tech overlords are building A.I. data centers faster than a caffeinated beaver on gas station Chinese boner pills.  These behemoths suck down electricity like it’s free beer at an open bar to toss electrons so we can make A.I. cat videos because there weren’t enough cats in real life.

The scale is enormous:  gigawatts upon gigawatts, enough to finally get Marty all the way back to 1985.  But that begs this question:

Where’s all that juice coming from?

My walkie-talkie once took a lump of coal to a movie.  It was a classic example of radio-carbon dating.

Coal?  Ha!  That’s so 19th century, and the eco-warriors have pretty much chained themselves to the last coal plant, screaming about carbon footprints.

Natural gas?  Did everyone forget demand peaks in winter when everyone is cranking up the heat and prices spike like Nvidia® stock?  Are we going to have to keep our homes at 40°F (3.14 millipedes) just so ChatGPT® can make GloboLeftist women on the East Coast even more neurotic?

We need power, so, naturally, the bright sparks in Silicon Valley and D.C. turn to the holy grail: The Simpsons.

Sure, Homer® looks incompetent, but he hasn’t melted Springfield down.  Yet.  When The Simpsons started, they were mocking nuclear power in the typical GloboLeft drive to get it shut down.

Deep down, though, nuclear really always has been the only viable transition plan into the future.  Oil really will run out at some point, abiotic or not.

I had an allergic reaction and the doctor asked how I was.  “Swell.”

But nuclear?  If done right, it really can be clean, reliable, and if we don’t let Soviets do it, pretty safe.

So, problem solved.

Not.

We’re facing an immediate energy cliff.  In 2025, nuclear isn’t a parachute, it’s really more like a bedsheet and some twine.

With a little help from Constant Reader Ricky, who sent me an email.

I’ll quote him directly because, well, he nails it better than I could.

Ricky writes: “Existing commercial power reactors in the US have two key characteristics – their uranium is enriched from the natural 0.7% U-235 assay to a level of 3%, and they are cooled with pressurized water as the heat transfer fluid to run the turbines. The reactors were INITIALLY fueled via uranium enrichment done long ago in . . .  monstrous factories that are now closed.  An effectively experimental centrifuge enrichment operation in Piketon, Ohio shut down in 2016 without ever producing a pound of reactor fuel (we bombed a similar setup recently in Iran).

“Believe it or not, the US CURRENTLY fuels its commercial nuclear power reactors for the past ten years with Russian 3% enriched uranium, even through the Ukrainian war.  The Russians basically dilute some of their bomb grade 93% enriched uranium stockpile down into 3% reactor fuel as an export profit center.”

Key point courtesy of Ricky: “The current American commercial nuclear power program is 100% dependent on the Russians and has been for the last decade.”  He adds, “But we want that because that every kilogram of Russian uranium that goes IN a New York City power reactor is one less kilogram of Russian uranium that can go into an incoming nuclear bomb OVER New York City.”

He’s right.  I want the Russians to hit the Somilsotans first.  And then New York City twice.  It’s the only way to be sure.

And just like uranium, Hillary is unstable, hard to find, and expensive.  If only we could power a reactor with her tears.

It’s like we’re in a bad spy novel, relying on our geopolitical rivals for the fuel that keeps our lights on.  We can stamp our feet as much as we want to, but as long as Mom and Dad are paying the power bills, they call the shots.

With AI data centers projected to gobble up an extra 200-300 gigawatts by 2050 (that’s tripling our nuclear capacity), we’re supposed to ramp up nuclear like it’s no big deal.  It’s like the steady high school girlfriend you’ve been dating off and on for a year who you can always call for a date at the last minute.

Nope.

Building that kind of capacity?

Recent estimates peg adding just 63 GW at $354 billion.  We’re talking trillions when you factor in overruns. The Vogtle plant in Georgia – two reactors, “just” 2.2 GW, clocked in at $35 billion after fifteen years of delays.

Nuclear power makes NASA look prompt and frugal.

Okay, we’ll just do micro-reactors.

Except these micro wonders ditch the “obsolete” 3% enriched uranium for something hotter: 20% enriched stuff, packaged in pellets like, I don’t know, energy kibble. Supposedly, they’re meltdown-proof, corrosion-resistant, great with kids, fun at parties, and perfect for high-temperature gas or molten salt reactors.  And they’re much smaller than kibble, like poppy seed sized, but kibble is a funnier word and I really don’t want to think how stupid it is to build highly radioactive balls that you could put into someone’s potato salad at the neighborhood picnic?

I did figure out where I got the plague:  the flea market.

Cool, so where do we get this 20% enriched uranium for our nuclear kibble?

We downblend our surplus bomb-grade stuff from the Cold War.

The US has 480 metric tons total, but half is reserved for nuking India (it’s the only way to be sure), and 100 tons reserved for Navy reactors.

Bringing those numbers up to date and turning it into nuclear kibble leaves 86 metric tons up for grabs.

So, we have a safe plan.  What’s stopping us?

Adding 250 GW of new nuclear by 2050 (a Department of Energy guess) requires 5,350 metric tons (it’s like a ton, but it has a French accent) of enriched uranium kibble.

Do the math:

86 tons available vs. 5,350 needed?

It’s like trying to fill an Olympic®-sized pool by spitting into it.

Our energy policy in a single meme.

Okay, let’s restart a program that used to make the stuff.  Great!  The Piketon, Ohio centrifuge plant we mentioned above, let’s use that. They’re planning on delivering 900 kilograms (a ton for those of us from countries that have put people on the Moon) by 2026.

So, we need over 5,000 tons.

We’ve made one.  Oh, scratch that, not even one yet.

Want to take odds on that bet?

Even if we magically create tons of usable uranium, Harry Potter-style®, there’s no supply chain for turning it into nuclear kibble.  Right now, it’s a prototype lab in New Mexico fiddling with demos.

We’d need a whole new industry.

And we’d need to have started on this (checks watch) twenty years ago.  That’s the bitch of exponential growth.  We could play with 2030 numbers (“only” 50 GW), but since no concrete has been poured for this new capacity and there is no path to creating this fuel, it’s more realistic to discuss if Superman© could beat The Witcher®.  It’s a non-starter.

I mean, who would win, Captain Kirk or T.J. Hooker?

We’re dependent on foreign fuel, short on domestic capacity, and staring at timelines measured in decades, not quarters.

Maybe it’s time to rethink the whole “AI will save us” stock market hype or at least stock up on candles and spears.

And hey, if that microreactor ends up in my yard, Homer© and I will host a barbecue, BYOGC.

(Bring your own Geiger counters, you know, potato salad).

Thank heavens we let The Simpsons create our energy policy.

Izzat:  How An Indian Concept Is Destroying The West

“Your honor, Your Honor.” – Caddyshack

Indian roads have so many potholes you should request a trip advisor.  (all memes except for the one directly above are as-found)

I hadn’t planned on doing more than one India post, but, with more and more information about the H-1B program coming out, I did a second one.  I didn’t plan on doing a third post.

But yet, here we are.

The latest skirmishes on the “India versus the world” front have been illuminating.  One of my biggest surprises was how Dinesh D’Souza had a meltdown on X®.  It’s odd that a man who wrote a book called The End of Racism would start calling anyone who disagreed with him “whitey”.

To be clear, it’s not something that bothers me personally, since I wake up every morning, look at my hands, and realize I’m not Indian.

Whew!  Damn, it feels great to be white!

But, after watching the reputation of my nation, one that white people created, being dragged through the mud, watching whites be discriminated against, and watching a never-ending toll of one-sided violence in the United States against white people, well, I’m done with political correctness.

But it doesn’t explain Dinesh.  I’ve always thought of him as a bit of a grifter since the only thing he has ever produced for this world are his opinions and carbon dioxide to feed plants.  One of the key takeaways I’ve seen from watching grifters is that “the first rule of grifting is that you don’t intentionally piss off the people you’re grifting”.

So, what is it that caused Dinesh to pop and get D’Souza all over the place?

Izzat.

What’s izzat?  I know, it sounds like one of my stupid jokes.  And when I first read about it, I was looking for a punchline.  But, nope, it’s real.  I read about it in a screencap from user GluttonousManSlob on kiwifarms®.  It was posted on a thread on /pol/, but the file is too large for me to post here, but you can find it on X® because I posted it here (LINK).

There is no direct translation of izzat as far as I know, and I know a lot of words.  It’s a weird (to a Westerner) concept of collective and individual honor and status.  The reason it is so weird is that it is honor that is completely stripped from the concept of right and wrong.  Izzat is all about winning and losing.

Dinesh didn’t want to reply, he had to reply.  His izzat was at stake.

As I said, anything is justified to keep izzat, even murder.  An example from India:  an Indian rickshaw driver saw two other Indians peeing in the street.  There was a public toilet right there.  The rickshaw driver offered to pay for the toilet for the men.

The men, having lost izzat, came back with a mob and beat the rickshaw driver to death.  The urinating Indians thus restored their lost izzat.

Dinesh saw mocking other Indians as something he simply could not put up with, and defended them as izzat demanded.  But there’s more to it than that.

The other problem with izzat is that it doesn’t matter who is right or wrong, it’s just about winning, which is why izzat prevents Indians from admitting they were wrong.  They will never take responsibility because being wrong entails a huge loss of izzat.

This leads to a complete breakdown in infrastructure.  Reporting a pothole is an insult to the Supreme Director of Roadway Quality and Repair for Utter Pradesh and if you reported one, the Supreme Director will want to find a way to punish and humiliate you rather than, you know, fix the pothole.  The mission of an organization or company isn’t as important as the izzat of the individuals at the organization.

Oh, and also why bribery is nearly a spectator sport:  if you bribe, you can get what you need (win).  But to require a bribe, well, that’s a lot of izzat.

Which is why scamming is great for Indians:  izzat isn’t about morality, remember, it’s about winning and losing.  But, it’s more than that.

The izzat from social status increases is amazing.  If an Indian has a job at, say, Microsoft™ and manage to hire another Indian, they owe him.  Izzat demands that their loyalty isn’t to Microsoft©, it’s first to that Indian that hired them, and second to all of the other Indians there.

It’s in-group preference on steroids.  And it explains why Indians never hire non-Indians unless they have to.  They don’t get izzat from Tom Tuttle from Tacoma, but they do get izzat from Kumar Krishnananana from Kashipur.

But if the hire Tom, they get a guy who wants to work for the organization, and get ahead to get raises, et cetera.  Typical Western behavior.  But if they hire Kumar, they get another person wo will want to increase his izzat by hiring in a bunch of other Indians, and, if possible a bunch of other Indians from his caste.

Best?

A bunch of Indians from his family.

In an Indian-dominated company, it’s no longer about the organization or the mission, or what is right and what is wrong.

It’s about izzat.  It’s about winning.  Each Indian is at war with every other Indian, yet they must support the other Indians against, well, you.  Why do Indians with middle class jobs raid food banks in Canada?  Because they can.  Because if they do that, they win, and get izzat.

If the guy above is okay with taking food from poor people, stealing Grandma’s life savings is nothing.  Probably, he thinks it’s moral.

The error that most people from the West make when dealing with other cultures is to think that other cultures have the same goals as those of the West, goals based on the honor of being a good man, of building for the future for our children, of doing what is right rather than what is easy, even when it means standing up to authority.

Western values, American values are in many ways the direct opposite of everything Indian culture produces.

Izzat, like the Indian Thugee cult is nothing but a destructive influence, one that, if the Indians like, they can keep.

And that’s all I have to say about izzat.

Self-Control, Scarlett Johansson, and Cigars: The Keys To Happiness

“I know you don’t approve, Pop, but believe me, until you’ve had a good cigar and a shot of whiskey, you’re missing the second and third best things in life.” – Paint Your Wagon

When I was 10, I answered the front door while smoking a cigar and drinking a beer.  It was the mailman, who asked if my parents were home.  Me:  “Does it look like my parents are home?”

There’s a dirty little secret nobody in 2025 wants to hear while they’re doom-scrolling on their $1,600 iPhone in a $6 latte haze of mild caffeination in a room filled with hipsters:

If everything is awesome all the time, nothing is awesome ever again.

I’ll share an example.

There’s a particular Macanudo Maduro® that I love.  But if I smoke it every single day, by week three it’s just a brown mouth-trash I’d light up without thinking, same as a Swisher Sweet™.

That ribeye, mashed potatoes, corn and, oh, yeah, baby, gravy I used to save for my birthday? Eat it nightly and suddenly it’s just Tuesday protein.

That OnlyFans™ subscription I swore was “art”?  Congratulations, I’ve turned Scarlett Johansson’s doppelgänger into wallpaper.  (I’ve never been on OnlyFans©, but wanted an excuse to show a picture of Scarlett Johansson’s, um, assets.)

When a waiter asks for a tip, is that gratuitous?

If I do this, my brain now reads “epic” as “baseline.”  That is how luxury murders my joy.  It’s inflation, but inflation of things that should be spiritually uplifting.  If I flood the zone with dopamine, suddenly nothing matters anymore.  I become that guy who needs a $400 bottle of wine to feel what normal people feel from a $12 Malbec on a Saturday night dinner with someone they love.

I figured this out slowly.  I asked myself, “Why don’t you like that Macanudo™ as much anymore?”  I mean, I’ve never treated myself like a Roman emperor with a Costco card:  steak whenever, cigars whenever, and Johnny Walker Blue© whenever.  But the cigar pointed me towards thinking about what sparking joy is really about.

Sunday only: the good cigar.

Monday and Wednesday: a reliable but unremarkable daily drivers.  Perfectly fine, but not the king.

What a difference!

That Sunday Maduro® became a religious experience.  I’d finish putting Monday’s post (yes, I write Monday’s post on Sunday night because I don’t have time travel), hit the hot tub, light the good cigar, and actually taste every note — cedar, cocoa, black pepper, the tears of my enemies, all of it.

But if women ruled the world, there would be no war – just a bunch of countries not talking to each other.

The other days?  I enjoyed the lesser sticks more because I knew something glorious was coming.  As the dead Raul Julia said, “There are two things worth living for.  One is a good cigar.  The other is a better one.”

It’s the same with food, but that’s a future Friday post lurking six months to a year out.  I’ll just say, my Friday dinner tastes far better than yours.

This is the stoic hack nobody markets because you can’t sell it in a pump bottle or an app or a subscription:  deliberate deprivation creates anticipation, and anticipation is the multiplier of pleasure.  I can’t recreate the first time I ever had an experience, but I can create enough anticipation to make that experience feel pretty damn good.

The problem is we are a society that is now based on hedonism.  Hedonism is spiritual communism:  from each according to his credit limit, to each according to his appetite.  And like all communist systems, it ends with everyone equally miserable, standing in bread lines for experiences that used to be thrilling.

Look around.  We are the richest society in human history and somehow producing the most miserable humans in human history.  Suicide rates, antidepressant prescriptions, anxiety, porn addiction, 340% of Gen Z identifying as LGBTQ because vanilla life is so boring they need a new operating system to feel anything and get attention from people who are stuck with their noses in their phones.

Based on that rap song, I bought classical music for my sons when they were young.  After all, baby got Bach.

This is all downstream of one fatal error:  We removed the delay between desire and gratification.

  • Want food? DoorDash in six minutes.
  • Want sex? Swipe.
  • Want entertainment? Infinite scroll.
  • Feel bad that someone in Guatemala doesn’t have Hulu®? Invite them all the Squatamalans to come to the United States.  Hell, the government will even pay.
  • Want validation? Post a thirst trap, harvest likes, repeat until dead inside.

Congratulations, you’ve removed the space where soul is honed to a keen edge!

You’ve eliminated the Monday through Saturday of life, the part where you suffer, anticipate, work, wait, and gone straight to an endless Sunday that, paradoxically, feels like nothing at all.

Real joy is not the peak. Real joy is the climb knowing the peak exists.

Paris Hilton signed a contract to do a reality television show of her climbing Mt. Everest.  It was the Paris Climb-It Agreement.

That’s why lifting weights is the ultimate red-pill metaphor for life. Nobody loves the squat rack at 5:30 a.m. in January.  But every man who has ever built a body he’s proud of loves having built it.  The soreness, the sacrifice, the mornings you didn’t feel like it.  That’s the lead up to the Sunday cigar. The physique is just the flavor that hits when you finally light it.

Same with marriage, family, wealth, mastery of anything worth doing.

There is no substitute for the iron.  You do not get strong without moving heavy things repeatedly while in mild to moderate discomfort.

  • You do not get wealthy without years of saying no to stupid purchases.
  • You do not get a great marriage without years of not banging the secretary.
  • You do not raise great kids without years of being the bad guy who enforces bedtimes.

Every single thing worth having in this life is on the far side of self-control.

Which brings us to the trad-right punchline nobody wants to say out loud:  our current societal upheaval is not a bug. It is a feature.  We spent seventy years removing all friction from life and now we’re reaping the whirlwind of a generation that has never been told no, never waited for anything, never suffered real consequences.

The result is not utopia.

The result is boys who can’t change a tire, girls who think chastity and modesty are personality disorders, and an entire culture addicted to rage and victimhood because pleasure no longer works on them.

The pendulum is swinging back, hard.

It’s swinging back because young men are waking up in droves, hitting the gym, deleting porn, deleting social media, reading the ancients, building families, and discovering something wild:  When you voluntarily embrace the Monday through Saturday of life, the discipline, the wait, the work:

Sunday actually shows up.  And when Sunday shows up after six days of earning it, my God, it is glorious.

This scares the GloboLeft so much they even call is fascism.

When I proposed to The Mrs., she paused and said, “I guess that has a nice ring to it.”

So, keep your constant luxury. Keep your endless treats, your participation trophies, your “you deserve it” culture.  I’ll keep my three cigars a week, my Thursday dinner, my Sunday Macanudo™, and the deep, soul-level satisfaction that comes from knowing I earned every single drag as I stare out into the infinite horizon of the sky.

Because the secret the stoics knew, that our ancestors knew, that every man who ever built something great knew is this:

Heaven is only Heaven if you’ve walked through Hell to get there.

And brother, I plan on enjoying the hell out of that walk.

See you on the other side. I’ll save you a seat.

And a good cigar.

Tech Frustration? The Result: Free Memes.

Well, I spent more hours this week dealing with tech issues on the blog.  I was wondering if I’d even be able to post today, but I’ve kinda got it working.  I used to be able to approve comments with my phone when I wasn’t at my computer – now, not so.  So, be patient if it sends your comment to comment jail until I get that part fixed.  Instead, here are memes.  Proper post coming back up on Wednesday.