The Feminine Mistake

“Behind the stubble and the too prominent brow and the male pattern baldness, I sensed your feminine longing.  And it just slew me.” – Being John Malkovich

soldier

Maybe it’s good we guys aren’t more in touch with our feelings?

Last Monday’s post (American Apartheid:  Resurrecting Communism’s South African Playbook – In America) provided ample evidence of the singular goal of communism:  power.  Raw, naked power.  In order to get this power, ripping apart the fabric of society to either foster or create ethnic strife is clearly on the table.

What else could socialists attack to destabilize Western Civilization?

The family structure itself.

The family structure is difficult to attack.  It is based on thousands of years of cultural evolution, and is inherently stable.  Recognizing that men and women are fundamentally different, the family structure plays to the strengths of each.  Mothers are warm and nurturing and like margaritas.  Men are stoic and strong and willing to die to protect the family and like beer.  Mothers depend on fathers to provide for the family.  Fathers depend on mothers to be faithful and care for the hearth.  The family structure is built on mutual interdependence.  Add in extended family, and a marriage is the atom of society.

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Enter socialism.  To make it worse than just plain socialism, it was a French socialist, Charles Fourier, who coined the word feminism in 1839.  Fourier used feminism as a concept mainly to indicate that women should be able to have lots of sex without marriage, presumably with Charles.

But even a curmudgeon (say, me) will admit, feminism started admirably enough:  the idea that women should have at least some of the same rights to education as men.  It evolved to the more advanced concepts that women should be able to have custody of children after a divorce, own property, and eventually vote, with Iran(!) granting women the right to vote before it was granted in France, probably because Charles was still sore that his idea of “getting women rights so he could have sex” scheme didn’t work.

If it would have stopped there, it probably would have been fine.  Maybe.  But it didn’t.

Fast forward to 1960:  Women’s Liberation® was the next idea that attacked the West, and it was firmly led by Marxists such as Betty Freidan who wrote The Feminine Mystique, which made lots of bored middle-class suburban housewives upset, for some reason.  Mainly because things were too good?  Stupid patriarchy, feeding us and keeping us safe and creating a prosperous economy.  We’ll show them!

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But the 1960’s also provided a huge technological change through the availability of the birth control pill.  Add in other leftist and feminist goals achieved such as no-fault divorce, welfare for single women with dependent children, changing family court laws to favor women in child custody, alimony, universally legal abortion, and you have fundamentally changed the institution of the family.

Attitudes towards children changed drastically at this time – look at how children were viewed in cinema:  Rosemary’s Baby was literally the devil’s spawn.  The Exorcist was exorcising a little kid.  Damien from The Omen (again, the devil’s spawn) was yet another kid, and Michael Myers from Halloween starts the movie as an evil child.  Although Generation X was the first post-pill generation, it was also the genesis of the latch-key child, the child who was less important than mother’s career or her search for self, and a generation of children that were marked by parental strife in ways that their predecessors weren’t as the divorce rate peaked in the 1970’s.  No wonder children were shown as figurative monsters in this decade.

And it was all due to the success of feminism.

The previous contract between men and women was broken.  Women no longer relied on a man, in many cases it was sold that woman could break from her oppressive husband and have freedom with her new provider and husband-replacement:  government.  Government would enforce alimony.  Government would enforce child support.  It would provide housing and food for children.  Government could stay out late and drink too much and not even call and flirt with Stacy, that tramp.  There was no need to stay in a marriage that wasn’t fulfilling in every manner or even have a husband – or so the promises went.  Actual quote from that era:  “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.”

Be unhaaaaaappy?  Get a divorce.

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Source Dalrock (LINK)

And, yes.  There are valid reasons for divorce.  Unhaaaaaappy?  Not one of them, which is why no-fault divorce is so corrosive.

Many people didn’t fall for the trick, and stayed married.  My parents did, probably because they realized it would require both of them working together to beat some semblance of civilization into me.  Those stable marriages provided a much greater degree of prosperity and wealth than their divorced compatriots.  Stable marriages provided great role models for stable children that didn’t go to jail.  Stable marriage provided the anchor for civic life.  Thankfully, this wave of feminism crashed on the rocks of pornography – one group decided it was horrible exploitation and should be outlawed, and the other thought that it was an expression of womanly power and should be celebrated.  You can guess which group was cuter.

Leftism itself waned during this time, and one primary exporter of communism went out of business – the USSR.  And if that was the end of feminism, well, it had already greatly hurt the viability of Western Civilization, but maybe we can heal.  So, we’re done, right?

No.  In the last few weeks the work of communism feminism continues.

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The first thread is the 36 page guidelines of the American Psychological Association® (APA™) that seeks to classify traditional masculinity as a mental health problem.  It reads like a bad Marxist senior thesis from an elite liberal school.  Here’s an example from the report (LINK):

“Because of the pressure to conform to traditional masculinity ideology, some men shy away from directly expressing their vulnerable feelings and prefer building connection through physical activities, talking about external matters (e.g., sports, politics, work), engaging in “good-natured ribbing,” exchanging jokes, and seeking and offering practical advice with their male friends.”

Yes.  This is how males work.  This is how males form hierarchy.  This is why we aren’t known as women.

Wait, John Wilder, you’re telling me that men and women are different?  I have been clearly told that they are exactly the same.

Dear reader, it is clear that men are different.  Why else would Gillette© have an entire commercial telling men how awful we are, which happened just last week?  Clearly, we don’t have a commercial from Playtex™ telling women not to kill their kids by drowning them in a car which would be equally as valid, but it’s still not there.  So, men and women are different, in that men are evil.  Men are so evil that a razor company, which theoretically sells to men, can spend nearly two minutes telling men how awful they are.

How bad was the commercial?  This bad:

Gillette-meme

(H/T Bookwormroom LINK)

But at least The Woman’s March which happened this weekend is non-partisan, right?  Just seeking to help women, right?

Here are excerpts from their goals (LINK):

  • We believe that gun violence is a women’s issue and that guns are not how we keep our communities free from violence.
  • We believe it is our moral imperative to dismantle the gender and racial inequities within the criminal justice system. The rate of imprisonment has grown faster for women than men, increasing by 700% since 1980, and the majority of women in prison have a child under the age of 18.
  • We believe in Gender Justice. We must have the power to control our bodies and be free from gender norms, expectations and stereotypes. We must free ourselves and our society from the institution of awarding power, agency and resources disproportionately to masculinity to the exclusion of others.
  • Immigration reform must establish a roadmap to citizenship, and provide equal opportunities and workplace protections for all.
  • All workers – including domestic and farm workers, undocumented and migrant workers – must have the right to organize and fight for a living minimum wage.

So, we have it.  Feminism is strong and growing.  Feminism is clearly leftist.  And not just a little leftist, but full blown Marxist.  There are other implications of feminism that are flowing through society now, but those will have to wait for a future post.  But feminism continues.

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Strangely, I didn’t see this list on the Women’s March website. 

Again, the idea is clear:  Create a victim culture.  Create alienation with the social norms that underpin Western Civilization.  Divide a nation.

The goal?

Power.

The irony?  In every single socialist paradise, from the USSR to Cuba to China, feminism isn’t tolerated.

Why?

Once they have power, they won’t share.

“There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life.  All competing pleasures will be destroyed.  But always — do not forget this, Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler.  Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless.  If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — forever.” – 1984

Mortality, Bill Murray, Art Lessons, and Avatar

“Two years he walks the earth.  No phone, no pool, no pets, no cigarettes.” – Into the Wild

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I’ve left a map.

“That’s so you, Dad.”

It’s an unusual thing for The Boy to say when discussing death.  In this case, my death.

First, some context.

I’ve made peace with the idea that I’m going to die.  I have no desire to die anytime soon, mind you, but I realize that it’s something that, statistically, happens to 100% of us.  Not 99%.  Not 99.999%.  Not even 99.9999999999%.

100%.

I think the human mind has developed safeguards to distract itself from facing this inevitability, primarily so we don’t spend our days in a corner sobbing uncontrollably when we’re young, muttering, “What is it all about?  Why do we even try?  What if I never meet Bill Murray?”  However, there comes a time in life when you begin to understand that death will come.  If I am statistically average, this fate is decades away and again, I’m not particularly interested in hurrying it along.

I’m not sure the exact moment I made peace with the idea of death.  It might have been when I was stuck watching a DVD of Avatar®.  That will make anyone long for death, so that was probably it.

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I kept waiting for Papa Smurf® to show up during Avatar©.  Or the movie to be good. Neither of those things happened.

As luck would have it, Pop Wilder lived to be quite old, and was in generally very good physical health throughout his life.  At the end he was taking in more calories in pill coatings than food, but he was in good enough shape to walk for miles.

His physical health was fine.  What happened to Pop Wilder was that he started forgetting.  Perhaps the biggest blow was that, at the end, he had forgotten me entirely.  I’m fairly certain that the last few times that I saw him he had no recollection of me.  His eyes were blank – worse than blank.  When he looked at me he had the wariness one reserves for a stranger or a congressman.

I had been prepared for this – it was obvious that his memory loss was increasing exponentially each time I saw him.  I think that the last time he really knew that I was his son was several years before he passed on.  And that was okay.  I won’t say that it wasn’t difficult, but I will say that I had said everything that I needed to say to Pop before he lost his memory.  I was at peace.  Again, not easy, not happy, but at peace.  I understood that there was nothing that man nor medical science could do for him, so there was no reason for anger.

I hadn’t, however, realized the impact it had on The Boy.  The Boy saw the same things that I did, and knew that Pop Wilder was no longer the grandfather he knew.  The Boy could sense that Pop Wilder wasn’t present anymore.  Perhaps this is the most basic element of horror – watching a human transform from the person you know very well into a person you don’t know at all.  It’s implicit in every horror transformation story from vampire to werewolf to zombie.  Seeing it when you are young hits you even harder.  That transformation is made more terrifying because you didn’t even know it was possible.

Fast forward to Saturday, six days ago.  We were driving home from an event, and I mentioned that there were some things I wanted to see from him in the next twenty or thirty years.

“Don’t dawdle.  I don’t want to have to wait to die when I’m ready to die.”

It was really meant as a joke.  The look on The Boy’s face as he drove, though told me he was thinking about it.  Deeply.

“I saw what Grandpa Wilder went through.  That was tough.”  Pop Wilder had passed on years ago.  “I like your idea better.”

“My idea?”

“Yeah.  The one where you’re going to go off into the woods with just your .30-06 and enough supplies to live.  Or die.  That’s so you, Dad.”

It’s true.  I had shared with The Boy my thoughts that, should I be judged to be terminal, or if it was pretty clear I wasn’t going to make it, that rather than lingering, undergoing chemotherapy, or having to sit through another Avatar© movie, I’d sling my rifle and enough physical supplies that if I worked at it and was skilled, I could live.  Until, of course, I couldn’t.  It would be an adventure.  Maybe I’d keep a diary.  That would be some great blogging from beyond the grave.  I could even sketch memes in pencil.

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See, drawing is easy!

“I hope that you’d drop me where there are bears.”

“Why?”

“Well, one might attack me and I could fight back with a knife.  It would at least allow me to go out of this life like I came into it – screaming and covered in blood that wasn’t mine.”  Okay, I stole that joke.  At least The Boy thought it was original.

He laughed.

But the point was a clear one.  I know that I certainly couldn’t have dropped Pop Wilder into the forest – that certainly wasn’t anything he had ever asked for.  Watching him decline, however, was tough.  In my mind he will always be 45, at the height of his business acumen, personal physical power, and filled with the vitality that kept him always going.  When I think of him, that’s the man I see.

I can’t square the conception of my future as one that ends in a nursing home, surrounded by the never ending too warm room and hollow echo of footsteps on beige vinyl tile and antiseptic smell of hospital grade cleansers.  No.  The frozen morning’s icy touch on my cheeks, the sound of the wind rushing up the snow covered valley, and the harsh smoke of a campfire.  That has a better feel.  A truer feel.

An adventure to cap off an adventure, my next day of life dependent upon my wits and the cold steel of my knife and rifle.

owl

If there or no bears to fight, I’m sure I can pick on an owl to fight to the death.  Plus?  Owls are easy to draw – only two steps.

I’m not sure that walking away into the woods will happen – there are certainly plenty of things that would prevent this from being my destiny:  obligations and events beyond number, that chance to hang around and become drinking buddies with Bill Murray.

But right now?  This adventure continues.  It’s time to make the most of the next few decades . . . there’s only so much time.

Get busy.

Life At the Margin, Jeff Bezos, and Milking Peeps

“Jeff Bezos wet his pants!”

“I did not – it was apple juice from before.” – The Simpsons

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I hear she ordered more toilet paper through the Jeffbot™ while they were out at Sonic®.

The margin is where life gets interesting.

  • Eating: It’s not the first bite of chocolate cake that gets you fat, it’s the last.
  • Booze: It’s not the first sip of alcohol that gets you drunk.
  • Driving: It’s not the first 65mph that gets you the speeding ticket.
  • Elections: It’s not the first 49% of votes that get you elected.
  • Safety: It’s not the base load that a bridge can carry that keeps you safe.

Life is interesting and gets more interesting at the margin.  When you think of margin, you may think of a soft, buttery spread that will kill you with trans fats.  That’s margarine.  No, the margin is the edge of the piece of paper, the difference between inside the envelope and the outside.  The margin is evident all around us if we take the time to look.

But, you say, “John Wilder, this is Wealthy Wednesday, what does the margin have to do with money?  And, I’m not stupid.  I know the difference between butter and margarine.  One is made from the milk of Peeps®, and the other comes from spiders.  But I do forget which is which.”

peeps

Be careful to milk the Peeps™ and not the Chihuahua.

This is Wealthy Wednesday, and margins fit right in.  When you think about finances, the impact of the margin is especially noticeable.

Businesses depend upon the margin.  Let’s take a construction company – when building, say, a new love nest for Jeff Bezos, the first dollars the company receives must cover costs.  There is the cost for the concrete, for the plywood, for the anti-ex-wife minefield.  Each and every cost associated with building the Alexa® enabled Love Shack Fire 2000™ must be paid before there’s any profit.  The only dollars that contribute to profit are the marginal dollars, the last dollars to hit the books.  That’s why a building contractor will fight like a velociraptor in a bag of laser pointers for that next dollar.  If a contractor got 9% profit for the Bezos Wealth Reduction Chamber© and asks for 1% more, to Bezos it’s just 1%, and he just lost $65,000,000,000 anyway, so that 1% sounds pretty small.  But to the contractor, it’s a 10% increase in profit, which is huge.  Getting 5% more for Jeff’s Carnal Cottage of Whole Foods Knowledge©?  That’s 50% more profit.

When corporate profits are up by 1% of revenue, that can create (in the example above) an increase of profits by 10%.  Profits are set at the margin.  Our economy is powered by the margin.

pushback

I guess that means the orbital laser system is out, too?

Taxes are set at the margin, too.  The top tax rate is 37%, which means that every dollar (once you’ve made $500,000) you only get to keep 63%.  That 37% in taxes?  It’s burned ritually in Washington D.C. every Summer Solstice.  They used to sacrifice a virgin congressman as well, but they swear they don’t have any of those anymore, not since Jeff Bezos visited.  But you pay more in taxes as you earn more money.

It equally applies to an individual’s income.  The most important dollar I make is the marginal one – that last dollar is the one that can be saved, spent on margarine butter or anything I want.  The first dollars are spoken for, they have to go to pay the mortgage, to feed two always starving children, to buy electricity.  But the last dollars are freedom itself.  The margin provides growth, to the extent that it exists.  If there’s a negative margin?  You’re eating your savings, or, worse, living on credit.

The margin also applies to what you do in life.  You can put in minimal effort, and be average or a little bit below average.  Or, you can work harder to push the margin, and be great at what you do.  As I get older, I’ve become convinced that talent can be a curse – it makes life easy.  Easy is not your friend. Easy provides good results with minimal effort.  That’s akin to jogging through life while everybody else has to practice sprinting.  Eventually dedication overcomes talent and they sprint past you to live on the margin, where all the nice things are.

margin

But if you have extra effort and talent?  You can live on the margin.  You can create the margin.

So, go create the margin.  It’s easier than squeezing Peeps© to make margarine.

American Apartheid:  Resurrecting Communism’s South African Playbook – In America

“Yes, wherever bicycles are broken, or menaced by International Communism, Bicycle Repair Man is ready! Ready to smash the communists, wipe them up, and shove them off the face of the earth.” – Monty Python’s Flying Circus

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There are times when you write something that you think is important, and you want to get it right.  This is one of those times.  I hope you find this post worthwhile.

A few weeks ago, a very good friend sent me an article.  The article intrigued me, and I began to research the background of the article.  What I found was stunning.  The article itself is this (LINK), from Time® magazine, you don’t have to click – I’ll summarize it below.  Time™, I’ll note, very appropriately has a red border but they haven’t added the hammer and sickle yet.  Yet.

I found this article disturbing, but it really matched with the research that I’d done up to this point.   There is a cultural shift of the Left, and the Left is moving ever farther, ever faster left.  I wrote about that here (Civil War, Neat Graphs, and Carrie Fisher’s Leg), which is probably what made my friend send the link.

I read Tayari Jones’ Time® magazine piece.  I found it to be an example of the outcome of the most brutal form of programming and child exploitation that I’ve seen recently, though I will admit that I try to shy away from Disney® movies.  In short, her parents were Black Nationalists (Her description, not mine.  “Black Nationalists” refers to a group that wants to either repatriate to Africa or to carve out a separate nation for blacks in the United States.) that convinced a five-year-old that Gulf Oil© was responsible for killing black children in Africa so much so that the child, Tayari, would not ride in a car fueled by Gulf Oil® to the zoo.  The piece ends with simplicity.  All to the Left is joyous and moral.  All to the Right is evil death.

Should we celebrate our tolerance and civility as we stanch the wounds of the world and the climate with a poultice of national unity?

Jones wants to further divide us, or destroy those who don’t and won’t conform to her (undefined) viewpoints.  Also, the last time the word “poultice” was used out loud was by Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies.  But her title says it all, “There’s nothing virtuous about finding common ground.”

That led me to wonder more about the author – what was going on in her head that led to this article?  What are her ultimate goals?  Featured prominently in the article was the Soweto Uprising, a 1976 confrontation between black students and the police, which appears in hindsight to be an unplanned 4th Generation Warfare (The Caravan:  Warfare by Other Means) offensive.  I hit Wikipedia to learn more.  Then, there it was, the missing link.

“No Middle Road,” an essay by Joe Slovo is listed as influential in the communist African National Congress (ANC) at that time.    The original title of the article by Jones, as enshrined in the URL, is telling:  “Moral Middle Myth.”  Obviously they are connected.  Again, from Jones:

I find myself annoyed by the hand-wringing about how we need to find common ground. People ask how might we “meet in the middle,” as though this represents a safe, neutral and civilized space. This American fetishization of the moral middle is a misguided and dangerous cultural impulse.

Okay.  Now you have my attention.  We have a person actively preaching division and implied violence whose suppressed essay title echoes an influential essay from 1976.  My next question was simple:  Who the heck was Joe Slovo?

Joe Slovo was communist, born Yossel Mashel Slovo in Soviet Lithuania who moved to South Africa with his family when he was eight.  Slovo was a deeply loyal communist who admired Stalin.  He was exiled from South Africa for 27 years and spent that time launching and orchestrating terrorist strikes in South Africa while abroad.  His operations included bombings of civilians.  Slovo did have some spare time to oversee the murder and execution of people thought to be traitors to the cause, often through putting a tire around their neck, filling it with gasoline, and setting it on fire.  The nickname for this practice was “necklacing.”  Now Slovo didn’t actually do these things himself, he merely planned them and was in charge of the organization that made them happen.  See?  His hands are clean.

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Slovo was such a leftist, the only thing he on the right of is this picture.

Slovo had to be an influence on Tayari Jones.  Understanding the influences can be important, besides, Tayari Jones didn’t mention exactly what she wanted done with those she opposes.  Maybe the essay she was influenced by would?

I decided to look for it on the Internet, where I can find out what was on TV on NBC® on a Sunday evening in June of 1983.  I spent more time than I’d like to admit spend sifting through Marxist websites, looking for the essay.  I went to the second page of Google© results.  Exhaustive research, indeed.  I even found where Marxists who had previously posted a copy were looking for a copy to post.  It’s like the document had been purposely scrubbed from the web.  Odd – once information hits the web, it normally flies free and multiplies.  Not this.

I finally found that the essay was included in a book, Southern Africa:  The New Politics of Revolution (Penguin/Pelican, 1976).  That’s the only place I could find it.  A seller on Amazon had a copy for less than $8, so I bought it.  It took weeks to arrive.  It was old – the pages were yellowing.  It also looked like a socialist’s mind:  it had never been opened.

What had I expected?  The usual Marxist language designed to be confusing and cult-like.

bafflegab

Whenever anyone talks like this?  They want you to nod and pretend you understand.

No.  Slovo was very clear in his writing.  Much of what Slovo writes are about conditions and history that are unique to South Africa.  And, reconstructing and solving the problems and historical injustices of South Africa, real as they were and are now, is far beyond this post.  But Slovo very clearly sets out a battle plan that is being used against the United States right now.

For instance, on page 118, Slovo states:  “To be born white means by definition to be born privileged . . . .” I hadn’t heard of the concept of “White Privilege” until 2014 or so, and then it was related back to an essay (White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack) by Peggy McIntosh, who you can read more about here in this excellent essay on Quillette: (LINK).

The important idea is that McIntosh didn’t originate this divisive concept – Slovo wrote about it in his 1976 essay.  It may be even older, but this is the earliest reference I’ve found.  And Slovo specifically introduced it to open additional divisions in South Africa.

Slovo continues:  “. . . the struggle to destroy white supremacy is ultimately bound up with the very destruction of capitalism itself.”  In a further parallel with today, Slovo describes the history of struggle for liberation as “The Resistance” as he builds a case that his dreamed-of communist state can only be brought about via violence, which he calls “armed struggle,” rather than “killing people I don’t agree with, and also kids on my side, if we can get good pictures for the press.”

Slovo clearly expected and desired a war.  In the time he lived, Slovo completely misread what happened in the communist takeover in Vietnam and he was thinking that the Vietnamese had won a military victory.  They had not.  The North Vietnamese and Viet Cong had been defeated in almost every engagement.  The North Vietnamese won because they demoralized the United States and made the politicians feel the war was unwinnable – clearly a Fourth Generation warfare victory.

Ultimately the ANC realized, however dimly, that the deaths of black South Africans during the Soweto Uprising was their victory.  They won by appearing to be the victims.  And they won by creating a coalition of victims who would never feel that they could never be repaid for their pain – no reparations would ever be acceptable.

Page 205 contains the telling sentence:  “The struggle can no longer be centered on pleas for civil rights or for reforms within the framework of white dominance; it is a struggle for people’s power, in which mass ferment and the growing importance of the armed factor go hand in hand.”  Slovo worked to use the ethnic divisions in the country to create a situation where raw power would end up in the hands of the communists.

There we have it:  the end goal is not rights, or prosperity, or freedom, or liberty.  The end goal is naked power.

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Back to the United States, we find that could never happen here:

Nothing you have is yours. Let me be clear: Nothing you have is yours. Also, Let me be see through: Reparations are not donations, because we are not your charity, tax write off, or good deed for the day. You are living off of stolen resources, stolen land, exploited labor, appropriated culture and the murder of our people. Nothing you have is yours.

Reparations for us are not only necessary because we are economically harmed, exploited and stolen from — while the violence against us is never acknowledged — but because in order for us to create and move work for Black liberation, it requires resources and MONEY. We live in a white supremacist capitalist world, so ain’t no spinning webs of lies around “money isn’t the answer.” It is because money and exploitation and power are interconnected concepts of violence. Y’all spent hundreds of years selling, mutilating, raping and beating our bodies and labor but you think money doesn’t matter to our freedom and liberation? Cute. Write me a check for this shade because it comes with 400 years of trauma.

We need housing, transportation, food, clothes, free space for meetings and work space; we need laptops, cell phones, encrypted systems for communication, solar power and LAND. Stop playing. Y’all really thought pulling up to the protest in your Hyundai was gonna be enough? Nah. You have to give us everything we need and more, because even if it means you go without — it doesn’t matter because that’s how we been living for 400+ years. Reparations will never be negotiable. So if you’re not willing to talk money, you are not here for #BlackLivesMatter as a movement or for us as individuals.

(H/T Liberty’s Torch (LINK)) Original that I tracked down is wearyourvoicemag.com.

I thought this quote was a parody until I found it at the website it was originally posted on.  It appears that she’s serious.  That’s from Ashleigh Shackelford, who seems really nice when talking to people that support her, as that passage above was a shout-out to her white supporters.  I left her spelling, emphasis, and capitalization intact.  Ms. Shackelford is the product of the same mentality of Marxist Joe Slovo and (I’m assuming) Marxist Tayari Jones.

As I wrote about earlier (Seneca’s Cliff and You), it’s far easier to destroy something than to make something.  In our culture, today, we actively have Marxists attempting to undermine the fabric of our society using a variety of weapons, and especially trying to create a majority coalition of disaffected people to destabilize society to create, in effect, an American version of apartheid to fight.  This is one reason that illegal immigration is actively supported – it brings in people entirely unrelated to the current society.  Outside of the future leftist votes, this group is used to help create additional fragmentation in the country.

MMback

He’s going to have to work awfully hard.

One thing we’ve seen – when this tactic works, ending it is difficult – look at the Protestants and Catholics in Ireland.  Once before in the comments on this blog people brought up the Irish Troubles and people started arguing about who was responsible in the comments.  On this blog.  In 2018.

I was certain that when the Soviet Union fell, that the world was safe.  In my mind, it should have been clear from the horrors of Cambodia, to the people of the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe winning their own freedom from oppression that the subject was closed.  Even if people couldn’t see that communism was evil, at least they could see that it didn’t work, right?

No.  Like Jason or Michael Myers communism keeps coming back.  It appears that, like Freddy Kruger, communism will keep going as long as people like Slovo, Jones, and Shackelford will fight and kill (even kill people on their own side) for power.  But only as long as there are people stupid enough to believe them.

Thankfully there’s no one like that in the United States.

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Slovo grave picture:  Andrew Hall [CC BY-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

Recessions, Depressions, Mullets, Coyotes and . . . Girls Drinking Beer

“Well, Eunice is depressed and Corinne is depressed and I was just debating whether or not to join them.” – Soap

economics2

Some things are better with beer.  Okay, that’s a lie.  Everything is better with beer.

Economic systems are nearly like a living organism, which makes them utterly unlike Nancy Pelosi, who is comprised of wholly of spare Abraham Lincoln parts from Disneyland’s® Hall of Presidents™ exhibit.  Like a living organism, economic systems start with raw materials and energy and produce products that people consume, like malls, bicycle-powered smoothie blenders, toddler grease, iPaws™ Apple® music for pets, and McDonalds® “food-based products.”  And like any living organism, economies grow, get sick, age, and eventually apply for Social Security.  When economies get sick?  We call that a recession.

How do economies end up in a recession? Describe it with a metaphor that incorporates cars, coyotes, Brad Pitt, and mullets.  (40 pts)

Economies have the potential to become unstable systems.

On a crisp, Christmas morning way back in time, I was driving due east on a straight, flat paved road.  It had snowed a few days before, and the county had been out with a snowplow and had opened up a lane.  On the parts of the road that had been plowed, a thin layer of snow had been compacted by passing tires into a very solid base.  It wasn’t slippery like ice, but it certainly didn’t grab on to a tire like dry pavement does.

But the plow didn’t clean off the entire road.  It left two inches or so of snow on the shoulders of the road on either side.  It was very, very cold, probably -20°F, and when it’s that cold and dry, snow behaves differently – after a few hours snow tends to become more compact, solid, and crunchy, almost like Angelina Jolie’s hair when I pet it when she’s sleeping, before she found me living in her attic and got that restraining order.

I was moving along at about 70 miles per hour – I figured that even if a sheriff pulled me over, he’d give me a Christmas morning break.  Nobody gets tickets on Christmas, right?  Without thinking I gradually drifted over onto that two inches of hard snow on the right shoulder.  Then?

Chaos.

I’d been moving down the road, but now everything was spinning.  The car kicked up a cloud of snow as it spun, and all I could see was white.  The car kept spinning.  Now it was up on two wheels, and I could feel that the car was tilted at about a 45 degree angle.

And the car kept spinning.

As suddenly as the car had started spinning, it slowed rapidly and stopped.  But it was still only supported by the two wheels on the driver’s side.  As the spinning stopped, the car hesitated with the wheels paused above the pavement, like a coyote running off of a cliff.  Gravity finally won out over rotation, and the passenger wheels slammed back to the ground, dropping three or so feet.

coyote

I’m not impressed.  I’ve survived worse.

The car stalled.  The defroster was still on, spraying a mist of powdered snow into the interior of the car.  Every window of the car was covered on the outside with a thin coating of powdery snow.

I opened the door and got out.  I had been travelling east, but the car was pointing due south toward a three-strand barbed wire fence.  I looked west, where I’d come from.  A very complicated set of tire tracks described the arcs and whirls my car had made as it pirouetted several hundred yards en pointe to where it sat.  The car had continued to follow the very straight road.

skyhawk

This is the same model, more or less, mine came with optional mullet enhancing. 

Know that feeling you get when you just missed death by ounces and fractions of a degree and your system is flooded with adrenaline?  It feels good.  Much better than being dead.

I brushed the snow off the outside windows – the entire car was covered in a fine powder.  I let the defroster melt the snow that had blown inside though the defroster.  I got back in.  I drove on.  I needed to find a poker game or a lottery ticket or an honest lawyer – no use wasting a lucky day like that one.

That spin out, though, was the automotive equivalent of a bad recession.

Everything was going along fine.  Sure, it looked stable.  And, as long as nothing changed, it was stable.  But when one little variable changed, in this case the friction on two tires on one side of the car, the illusion of stability vanished in a cloud of rotating snow that looked like the an Olympic™ figure skater trying to drill herself into a television announcer contract.

That’s generally the case with the economy.  Everything looks fine.  It’s moving along.  Then?

  • Interest rates spike, or
  • Someone sticks a pin in a Dow-Jones voodoo doll, or
  • Bubbles pricing in stock that people paid way too much for I bought become apparent, or
  • It becomes obvious that nobody needs a seventh iPhone®, or
  • Housing prices suddenly do the impossible and go down.

What happens then is the economy comes out of the spin, looks around, and starts moving again.  Sure, it was close to disaster but it turns out that, just like the car, the economy is okay.  We can start the ignition and keep rolling down the road, our collective mullets blowing in the wind.

mullet

Okay, this is probably the first time you’ve seen a mullet used in an economics metaphor.  You’re welcome.

Everything in the world was fine.  The factories are still there, the people are still there, and all we need to do is have enough confidence to start buying Johnny Depp® movies again, and we’ll be okay.  After a few years, we’ll forget that we’re headed down a snow packed road and spin it out again.  No real harm, no fouls.  And the recessions actually perform a service – a good recession causes poorly managed businesses to fail, and leaves room for well-managed businesses with great products to grow like a well-oiled mullet.

But what causes an economy to fail?  Describe it using a pickup truck for extra credit. (40 pts)

Time went on, and I traded out my car for a used pickup.  It had seen better days, but I was convinced it was solid.  It was making a rattling noise, and I was going to take it to a friend’s house so we could look at it, and it was again around Christmastime.  Sensing a theme?

As I drove down the interstate, the passenger in the car made the comment, “I’m not sure that this pickup is reliable.”

“Reliable?  This old truck is solid.  It’ll last for a decade!”  With that comment, I brought my fist down on the dash to show how solid the truck was.

Whatever sense of irony is buried in the universe activated in that second.  There was an explosion, a flash, and a 12 foot diameter cloud of grey smoke.  A piston rod came apart and shot down through the engine and the oil pan and onto the road below me at the speed of light – I think they found it in Australia when it came up through the ground and up into orbit.  All of the engine oil dropped onto the highway in less than a second.  Every red light on the dashboard lit up.  Oddly, the engine lasted exactly two more miles to a parking lot where I began to walk to a pay phone, which was a thing that existed before cell phones.

selfdestruct

This is not the same Jeep®, but looks pretty similar.  Except for the “exploded” part.

Those were the last two miles I ever drove that pickup.  It was dead.

Whereas even large recessions like the Great Depression are hiccups of a functional system (I can get in my car and drive off), this failure was deeper.  The system was broken.

What breaks an economic system?

  • Lack of people.
  • Lack of knowledge.
  • Lack of raw materials.
  • Lack of energy.
  • The French.

These are factors that will cause a civilization to fail, completely and utterly.  Let’s take them one at a time:

Lack of people.  Like any country, Rome encountered problems.  To fix the problem, the Romans made rules.  But, like Congress today, the rules that the Romans made . . . caused more problems.  Solution?  More rules.  Which led to more problems.  Eventually, it was so bad that the Romans had to make a law that the firstborn son had to have the same job as his dad.   This was fairly unpopular – eventually the people wandered away, which was also illegal, but by this time all the soldiers had walked away, too.  Other causes of depopulation include disease (like Ebola, LINK), bombs, and starvation.

But we still have the recipe – we can make more people if we need to.  One civilization may end, but another one is just a hundred years away, or 40 if you’re in Utah.

Lack of knowledge.  The secret of making concrete was lost for nearly 1500 years with the fall of the Roman Empire.  Knowledge of how to make plumbing out of lead, pyramids, Viking sunstones, and William Shatner’s hair have been lost and found again.  While these didn’t kill civilizations, they certainly contributed to the inability to quickly remake them to their previous glory.

We can experiment, though, and learn again.  As long as we learn to skip the lead plumbing this time and keep it in the paint chips that toddlers eat, where it belongs.

Lack of raw materials.  Ireland was deforested to make ships for the British Navy.  Ireland may have fewer trees, but certainly the British Navy was able to become even stronger.  There was a report issued in 1900 noting that the United States would run out of trees by 1920 because so many were required to make railroad crossties. The ability to treat them with creosote to make them last for longer was developed.  Heck, nowadays some railroad crossties are even made out of concrete, since we found that recipe again.

Humanity has regularly found substitutes for raw materials throughout history.  Soylent Green anyone?

soylent

I like the Bald Eagle and Panda Dip® best, myself.

Lack of energy.  300 years ago if your civilization was running out of energy that meant you didn’t have enough oats to feed your horse or your mule or your peasant.  Probably in that order.  Now with a global economy that produces trillions of dollars in food, products, and sweatpants each year running out of energy is something else entirely.  The fate of mankind is the fate of energy – coal, oil, renewable or nuclear.  It’s so important that I’m working on a series of posts on just that subject.  It is the single most important non-political question in the history of humanity.  This makes Climate Change® look like the kiddie pool, so much so that I’ve been working on a post (posts?) on just this question, which I’ll finish sometime before oil goes to $100 and Justin Bieber is elected president.

Without energy we would have all of the economy of 1420’s mud-hut dwelling Frenchmen.  Which brings us to:

The French. 

Well, we have to blame someone else.  They were convenient.

What’s next?  Summarize your previous answers.  Incorporate girls drinking beer. (20 pts)

I fully expect that there will be a recession within two years, and at this point I think the recession will be a lot like my car spinning out – it will be a recession that doesn’t expose structural weaknesses in the economy, but it will be significant.  Reliable?  This old truck economy is solid.  It’ll last for a decade!

economicgirl

Truth, and Eight Types of Lies

“Would you prefer a lie or the truth?” – V for Vendetta

thetruth

Never let Jack into your house.  When he leaves the deli drawer will be empty, you’ll have to burn your seat cushions, and your cat will be pregnant.

I believe in Truth.  Objective, verifiable Truth.

Gravity works.  100% of the time.  When I toss my keys on the table they never fall off the side and shoot up toward the ceiling, unless it’s after 3AM in Australia, and only then if Australia’s had a lot to drink.  When the Earth rotates so I can no longer see the Sun, the next morning the Earth will have rotated so I can again see the Sun, provided we killed all the groundhogs.  See, simple true things.

There really is Truth.  Are some things not certainties?  Sure.  There are things that are governed more by probability, and at the quantum level there may be events that exceed our understanding, but none of those things say that Truth doesn’t exist.

Somewhere a campaign against Truth started.  The big proponents of it during the last century were a group of (mainly) French philosophers who had day jobs as postmen that smoked a lot of cigarettes while wearing berets and scowling and thus became known as the Postmodernists.  But digging back further in time, the French got this idea from that German, Friedrich Nietzsche.  Nietzsche went hopelessly slobbering Daffy Duck® insane by the time he was 44, so, of course he was a great role model for the French philosophers. “Truth doesn’t exist?  Can you tell us more?  What does purple taste like?”

download

Rumors were that the mustache remained sane.

The concept that “there is no Truth” is infectious and has become the herpes of philosophy.  Mankind only dabbled with it once, but we just can’t get rid of it.  Anti-Truth has successfully taken over a pretty big chunk of our education system.  An example:

I saw a tweet on Twitter® on Saturday night from a college professor.  She noted that she couldn’t get a classroom to admit that rape was wrong.  From the students:  “Other cultures may have different views.  You can’t always say that what we [the enlightened students] consider rape is really rape in another culture.”  Rape wasn’t a Truth.

When the professor made the statement that the United States didn’t have a “Rape Culture”, however, the class exploded.  How could the teacher make such a statement?  Thoughts so muddled can only come from those that reject Truth.  Thankfully, all of those kids majoring in Pre-Barista (Miles, see, I told you I would steal it) can argue Truth while they make Pumpkin-Spice non-fat decaf lattes for doctors’ wives.

barista

But that brings us to Lies.  I think I’ve established that Truth exists, so that must mean that there are Lies.

What kinds of Lies are there?

I came up with eight kinds of Lies.  I’ll be the first to admit that there is subjectivity in my categories, and that I might have missed some, but I’ll assert that 99% of the lies you will ever encounter will fall into one of these categories:

  • Direct Lies – these are the Lies of a five year old, or a Congressman. But I repeat myself.  These are simple:  “I didn’t steal the cookie.”  “I didn’t touch the intern.”
  • Lies You Tell Yourself – The mirror is an amazing device that allows me to completely miss how I really look. I saw a picture of myself the other day, taken from fifty feet away.  “Oh, crap, that’s me!  Where did my hair go?  Oh, yeah, my ears.  At least I can braid those luscious locks.”  My mirror doesn’t lie, it just reflects photons.  TLEBME – The Lie Exists Behind My Eyes.  This lie makes me think of Bobby Burns and the end of his poem, To a Louse:  “O, wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us, to see oursels as ithers see us.”  Burns could not spell, and was Scottish.  But I again repeat myself.  But Burns was awesome in understanding that, when viewed from outside, we’re neither as noble as we think we are or as interesting.  Except for me.

burns

  • Lies of Omission – Leaving out a word or two makes all the difference. Heck, sometimes just inflecting the wrong word is a lie.  “No, dear, those pants don’t make your butt look big.”  Another way to inflect that sentence is, “If you grow into your butt you will be eight feet tall.”  See how a small change just in word inflection changes the whole meaning of the sentence?  Regardless, omitting important details can turn a statement into a lie.
  • Lies of Word Choice – Love or hate Trump, you have to admit he is the single most entertaining politician of the last 100 years. But whenever Trump says anything, the Press™ (looking at you, New York Times® and Washington Post™) has to editorialize even the most mundane news story:  “President Trump today made the unfounded claim that water is wet.”  Want proof?  A Google® search of “Trump unfounded” led to 2.3 million hits.  Google© search of “Obama unfounded” led to 1.1 million hits.  But, if you look at the first page, it’s all “Trump’s unfounded statements about Obama” type stories.  Exclude Trump from the search results?  400,000 hits, and EVERY SINGLE result on the front page is a defense of “unfounded” attacks against Obama.  Any time you see the word “Unfounded” know that you are being lied to.  It’s the “I love you” of political journalism.

unfounded

  • Lies of Vagueness – this is putting together a statement that can be filtered by the user to mean whatever they think it means. “I believe children are good,” might be a statement that reflects a belief that children are wonderful and full of hope and possibility.  It also might mean that they’re tasty when cooked to medium with ketchup.  I am coming to believe that Jordan Peterson is perhaps pretty good at this method of mendacity, even though I have reviewed him positively in the past.  I’m now of the belief that I reviewed what I thought he said, rather than what he really meant, which nobody may really know.  These are tougher to sift through – and require study.  Beware of the vague.
  • Lies of Exaggeration – it’s been a decade since Al Gore predicted an ice-free (summer months) Arctic in 5-7 years. Yeah, about that, the Danish Meteorological Institute says no ice trend at all in the last 12.  You tried, Al.

gore

  • Lies of Timing – ever wonder why you’re hearing a story at a particular time and place? Perhaps manipulation is to blame?
  • Lies of Confusion – Marxists are the worst/best at this. They toss together salads of multi-syllable words that they’ve self-defined to the point of nonsense.  An example from the Web:  “Here is where the Marxist claim for the explanatory superiority of a class analysis comes into the mix, and the distinction between oppression and exploitation becomes crucially important.”    Words.  Meaning?  They’re trying to cloud it – they use unusual words defined in mysterious ways to divorce you from Truth.  Listen long enough?  Pretty soon you become convinced that Venezuela is the true Socialist Worker’s Paradise and you’re being oppressed by your boss because he won’t let you FaceBook® all day on your phone because you have to make nonfat decaf pumpkin-spice lattes for doctors’ wives.  That wouldn’t happen in Venezuela!

But I’ll toss one other thought out there:  If you believe that a lie exists, which no rational person would argue against, then you must agree that truth exists.

And if there’s truth?  There’s Truth.

Oh, and there go my keys floating by . . . Australia must be drinking again.

Wombstyles of the Rich and Famous, Sexy Handmaids, Insurance, and Insulin

“Don’t listen to him, man.  The insulin, it made him crazy.” – Con-Air

unibrow

How do you tell the number of Kardashian women in a room?  Add the eyebrows and mustaches and divide by two.

Health care is important to people – both as individuals (Early Retirement: Things to Consider (cough Health Care cough), Readers Write: Early Retirement, Health Care, Canada, and Averting A Ben Affleck Marathon) and to Americans as a group.  It has become so critical that I think that its current level of mismanagement will sink the country within 15 years (More Budget Doom, The Rolling Stones, an End Date, and an Unlikely Version of Thunderstruck), or (more likely) lead to a drastic reduction in overall care for the people who don’t live like The Rich and Famous.  But I have popcorn, I’ll probably have the weekend free, and it should be pretty fun to watch, so why not enjoy?

What led to this observation?

Kanye West and Whatever Kardashian have three kids, which surprised me – I always thought that the Kardashians reproduced like a virus – infecting their host cell and then making it explode with millions of copies of Kardashians that go on to infect other cells.  I guess not, and even my second guess – reproduction through egg-laying was wrong.  Kardashians reproduce just like a normal human does.

Or, maybe not?

I found out about the West/Kardashian reproductive habits not because I follow them on the news or have a link to their Amazon® Echoâ„¢ – my Amazon© Echo® eavesdropping is generally limited to listening in on Tom Hanks – he’s much more interesting than you might imagine.  No, the West/Kardashian pregnancy was front and center on Google News Wednesday morning and they won’t allow me to install a Kardashian blocker on my work computer.

Thankfully the world will be blessed with what it needs most, an additional celebrity child.   This birth, however, will be special.  Whatever Kardashian is not using her own womb, but is renting one for her baby.  There will be tons of tests, probably a minimum ACT® score, and payment for services rendered.  I’m sure it will all be wonderfully legal.

mother's day

Different people celebrate differently.

Furthermore, this is the second child of the West/Kardashian hive that will be born via surrogate.  Now, Internet, I did open up and read an article about this, all for you.  You really must appreciate the sacrifices I make, this was worse than many horror novels I’ve read.  Whatever Kardashian told a thoroughly gruesome description of a previous birth complete with details that I would not tell to a priest during confession, were I Catholic.  Heck, I remember when I was younger and would go to confession just to brag, but this Kardashian story wasn’t bragging, it was gagging.  I do NOT recommend that you read about it if you’re at all squeamish.  Let me rephrase – I don’t recommend you read it at all.

I can understand the desire for more children.  I understand she alleges that her doctor says she shouldn’t carry another one.  But when Whatever told the scandal sheet entertainment magazine that she really found it convenient to outsource the breastfeeding of her child, I was as stunned as a kitten in a quantum physics class.  Here is the class divide in America – a princess grown woman deciding to hire a commoner another grown woman to create and nurse her offspring.  Maybe I wasn’t too far off with the whole virus analogy.  Heck, they could even hire a surrogate father to help the surrogate mother raise the kid.

I looked up what this would cost, and it’s probably at least a quarter-million dollars to have a surrogate deliver your kid in California, but that’s probably the entry level cost.  I’m willing to bet that the Kardashian/West family has a great number of requirements, like having the surrogate mother eat the Royal Kardashian Jelly while she’s pregnant so it smells like a Kardashian when it’s born and therefore won’t be eaten by the other Kardashians at birth.  I even imagine they pay her to live with them for up to another year to nurse the child, and likewise restrict her diet and activities.

handmaid

I’m sure this is how Margaret envisioned the costume.

The Handmaid’s Tale was a novel from the 1980’s by Margaret Atwood.  In it, Atwood raises the ever so certain prospect that evil Christians were going to institute a Christian theocracy and force women to wear red outfits and have babies for powerful men.  I suppose this has parallels the popular allure that zombies have for kids, but for liberal women, but it amuses me the situation has come to pass as an actual Hollywood scheme and nobody seems to mind.

I have a lot of sympathy for childless couples who resort to surrogate mothers for one reason or another, and (really) are generally supportive of new babies being brought into the world – babies are our future, unless the robots take over, in which case I welcome our new robot leaders (who can look this up in my blogging history, and then they will know I always wanted them to take over).  Also, the surrogate market appears to be (kind of) based on the free market – how much will you pay for another woman to bear your children?  I’m also willing to bet that free market competition has brought the prices of surrogate mothers down over the years, especially at that clinic at the unmarked door behind the Dairy Queen® in Encino.  Whether or not bringing a fourth child into this world via surrogacy is ethical, well, that’s beyond this post.

But what isn’t beyond this post is that the medical system is still broken.  Basic procedures and medicine (like insulin, or Epi-Pens®) have increased in prices drastically, even though cost of production has dropped.  Somehow, the market has completely failed.  Humalog™ (a form of insulin made from elf tears) was $21 a bottle back in 1995.  It’s now $225 a bottle.  That’s 1071% in 20 years.  Based on that growth rate, in 2037 it’ll cost $2,400 a bottle.  At some point it will become cheaper to kidnap elves and chain them in your basement for their precious insulin tears.

insulin

I think the solution is a drastic one:  make prescription drug coverage via insurance illegal.  Once the market takes over, prescription drug prices really will come down.  The alternative?  Make importing prescription drugs into the United States legal.  In Canada, a vial of Humalog® is $50.  The price discrepancy isn’t the free market at work – it’s a controlled market where Congress™ and the FDA© have managed to create billions in additional profit for drug makers.  At your expense.

Medicine is broken.  Burn it down.

I do find it odd that the Kardashians met their latest surrogate at an unmarked door behind a Dairy Queen® near the Taco Bell© in Encino (okay, I do listen to their Amazon® Echo™).  I would have thought they would have had better insurance than that.  Nah.  I’m sure it’s legit.

Happy Penultimate Day 2018, and the Biggest Story of 2018: Societal Trust

“Gentlemen, question mark?  Put it on the penultimate, not on the diphthongic.  You want to brush up on your Greek, Jamison.  Well, at least get a Greek and brush up on him.” – Animal Crackers

penultimate

I got a new camera.  Not at Best Buy®.  I mean, I took the picture at Best Buy©, but I got the camera elsewhere.

We had another wonderful Penultimate Day this year.  The origins of Penultimate Day are shrouded in mystery, lost to the ages in the murky past before recorded history, way back in 2012.  On December 30, 2012, sensing that the world wasn’t really going to end as the Mayan calendar expired, The Mrs., The Boy, Pugsley and I piled into the Wildermobile and drove two hours to buy cell phones.  Stupid Mayans, if only they could have managed the whole end-of-the-world I wouldn’t have had to go shopping.

But I did have to go shopping.  Our cell phone carrier doesn’t have a store within 100 miles, so we decided to make a day of it.  The first time we’d bought phones, we’d bought them at a Best Buy®, so we went back to Best Buy© to look at new ones.  We didn’t find something cheap what we wanted.  We decided to keep our “has an actual keyboard” Blackberries for another year or two.

After not buying a cell phone, we ate dinner at Olive Garden™.  We had joked on the way back that December 31 was the “ultimate” or last day of the year.  We used the word “penultimate” to describe December 30, since penultimate means “next to last” and has even more syllables and sounds really nerdy.  Thus, December 30 became Penultimate Day.

We’ve celebrated Penultimate Day in proper fashion five or six times now.  I think one year a snow storm might have made the trip our pilgrimage impractical, but we did go again this year.

So, to recap, Penultimate Day requires:

  • Get in the car
  • Travel two hours
  • Go to Best Buy©
  • Whatever you do: Do not buy a cell phone
  • Eat at Olive Garden™

I would like to have Penultimate Day replace New Year’s Day – I’ve never seen the attraction in a holiday that celebrates the obsolescence of millions of calendars and the shared hangover of people who spent the night getting sweaty, drinking Jägermeister©, and saying “woo” in crowds still and have no idea how they ended up in that alley with Johnny Depp, a juicy oven-warm ham, gravy, and that gun.

Some Penultimate Day observations over the years:

Best Buy™ is largely irrelevant and more so every year.  Best Buy® sells physical copies of movies, which is like putting a little bit of the Internet on a DVD® and selling it, making it more inconvenient to find when you want to watch it at 11PM.  They sell music, which is quaint.  Why buy music when I live in a universe where Pugsley’s phone did a Bluetooth© connect to The Mrs. car and we listened to whatever song we could think of on the way home, all thanks to YouTube®?

We introduced Pugsley to Dread Zeppelin on the way back home.  What’s not to love about Led Zeppelin® music sung by an Elvis™ impersonator to a reggae beat?

We left Best Buy© without purchasing anything and passed the fourth test of Penultimate Day.  No cell phone purchased.  Thankfully, the Gods of Corporate Provenance placed the Olive Garden™ pretty close to the Best Buy®.  I guess lots of people who don’t buy cell phones like Italian.  We got a table immediately and from the beginning I noticed that the service was excellent, which must mean the economy isn’t doing so well.

Wilder’s 80th Rule of Economics states that the primary effect of a great economy is horrible waiters at corporate chain restaurants.  Great waiters get hired to sell stocks or become corporate lawyers or become the district manager for a PEZ™ distribution company.  When the economy starts to stall?  Great waiters show back up and the bad ones are sent to the Cool Whip® refineries.  I’d rather have great waiters than more corporate lawyers, and remember, someone has to pump the raw Whip from deep underground and refine it into precious Cool Whip™.

The food at Olive Garden™ has gotten better every year.  Sure, it’s corporate chow whose primary virtue and charm is consistency, but at the rate of once or twice per year it’s pretty tasty.  But just before I left the restaurant, I noticed a black and white photo of a little Italian market along a crooked little road between buildings in the restroom.  I would have taken a picture of the photo to show you, Internet, but my probation decorum prohibits me from pulling out a camera in a public bathroom.  Like Teddy Roosevelt said, “Never trust a man with a camera at a urinal.  Nothing good can come of that.”

market

The picture I saw was kinda like this one.

What really got to me about that picture (the one I saw, not the one sort of like it above) was that there was no one in it, but that lots of food from the market was out in front, for anyone to take.  And there was no one around to watch the food.  It got me to thinking, what kind of society builds that kind of trust, to leave food outside where anyone could steal it with only a tiny chance that they’d be caught?

Coming from where we live in Modern Mayberry, there is great degree of societal trust.  It seems like once a month Pugsley or The Boy leaves the garage door open all night long – I can tell because there’s no way that all of the junk in there is mine – our neighbors must come and put extra tools and tarps and motorcycles on the floor.  The Mrs., after several years, has managed to convince me that unlocked cars aren’t much of an issue, either.  I do lock the front door to our house – I especially don’t trust thieves at night – they know that you’re home and are prepared to be violent.  Thankfully, in our town guns outnumber people by a 2:1 margin, so the occasional murder is about passion or drugs and not random violence.

I mentioned the picture to the family as we drove home.  We talked about trust in society.  The Mrs. had a great observation:  “Not long after we moved to Modern Mayberry, everybody knew who we were and what our business was.  In a town that size, there’s no way that you can be a bad person and people not know about it.”

She’s right.  There is crime.  You generally know who was responsible.  They’re generally caught, and generally sentenced to fair sentences, though I will say the latitude for self-defense when you’re being robbed at gunpoint is amazingly high – you don’t want to rob an armed house if people are home unless you don’t want to see how Game of Thrones® ends because, you know, early exit from breathing.

In Modern Mayberry there’s an amazing amount of agreement on ethics, religion, and the law.  That provides the backbone for Societal Trust.  Societal Trust is important – it provides:

  • Trust in neighbors to not steal
  • Trust in business partners to meet their end of the deal
  • Trust in government to be fair
  • Trust in media to be unbiased
  • Trust in elections to be honest

No, Modern Mayberry isn’t a paradise where all of these things are true.  But our government isn’t big enough for big corruption.  Neighbors don’t steal, but the kid three blocks away does, and we know who he is.  And the ladies who count the ballots take it seriously and are sincere when they thank you after having handed you your “I voted” sticker.  In high trust societies, things are easier, life is better.  People will stop and help you if you have trouble.

The size of Modern Mayberry is small, the residents have been around forever.  People are a known quantity.  Trust isn’t at the level of “When you’re here, you’re family™” – no, that level of trust is saved for Olive Garden®.  But people in Modern Mayberry do and will pitch in to help their neighbors.

olive

Behold the saturated beauty of the Olive Garden© logo.  Worship it!

I had always thought that there was anonymity in cities.  But when I spent some time in a Chicago for work I saw that it wasn’t that way at all.  The neighborhoods were tightly grouped, at least on the South Side.  The Polish?  They maintained the Polish neighborhood.  Supermarket signs were in Polish.  The Italians?  They had a neighborhood that was next to the Polish neighborhood.  Nobody crossed the street between the neighborhoods.  There was a wall, but it was invisible, and each side patrolled their own side.  If you were Polish or Italian, you knew better than to cross the line.  They managed to find harmony though minimizing cultural friction along ethnic lines, the same way most modern suburbs divvy up the land based upon economic lines.  But that’s not enough.  Some leakage across boundaries is inevitable, and some areas fracture within ethnic lines.  That’s why Chicago has such a high murder rate.

Trust consists of finding points of agreement.  In my first Penultimate post (last year) I talked about what I felt was the biggest story of the year for 2017.  In this post?  The biggest story for 2018.

We are unraveling.  Our trust is fine here in Modern Mayberry.  It’s probably good in most of the suburbs.  Heck, most of the localities and neighborhoods across the country are fine.  2018, however, has shown the greatest division in at least the last 150 years building nationally.  Here’s a previous post on this:  Pulp Fiction, Epsilon Theory, and The News Isn’t The News. Really.

But what will bring back our trust nationally when we don’t even agree that we should all throw off our shackles, drive to Best Buy© on December 30th and exercise our right to not buy a cell phone and then eat corporately-designed Italian food?  Unify the United States:  replace New Year’s Day with Penultimate Day, a far superior holiday!

What does your ideal day look like?  Probably Rosie O’Donnell-Free?

“I’ll give you a winter prediction:  it’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be grey, and it’s gonna last you for the rest of your life.” – Groundhog Day

angry

Never let a groundhog drink and drive.  Or, drive.  They always look at intersections too long, looking left, looking right, checking for shadows.

“What does your ideal day look like?” – Ryan Holiday (LINK)

I wrote that down in my notes the first time I read it – it seemed important, a question too few people ask.  Thinking about it, it seems even more important because I think that we often sleepwalk through life following the plot of one of two tragedies:

  • We live the life we live – because one day we’ll change it.
  • We live the life we live because we think we’re forced to.

Let’s look at the first one:

“We live the life we live – because one day we’ll change it.”

I think this is the mode that most people get into.  They get up, and go to work.  They live a life of unending Tuesdays – it’s not horrible, but it’s unchanging.  Existence consists of a grey world that gets them from the chiming of the alarm in the morning that wakes them up to the flick of the light switch that’s the last sound they hear before closing their eyes.  It’s like Groundhog Day, but without Bill Murray’s zany antics.

groundhog

And again.  And again.  And again . . .

It’s not a bad life, but by my observation this life is filled with lots of “One Day I’ll” thought.  One Day I’ll go to Europe.  One Day I’ll climb that mountain.  One Day I’ll (fill in your blank here).  Heck, you could put anything in that blank because it’s something you’re never going to do – most of those One Days never come.  This life is built upon dreaming about the things you’ll do.  One Day.

The second life is more tragic:  “We live the life we live because we think we’re forced to.”  In this case, each day is a prison.  We spend that day not because we’re doing something we want to do, we’re doing it because we have to do it.  Our lives are at the whim of outside forces in the universe.  And they keep us confined, in small corridors.  If the first life is grey and unchanging, this one is a very dark grey and seems to get darker and longer each day.  It’s the life-equivalent of being married to Rosie O’Donnell, and never being able to be away on a business trip.

This is a life that isn’t built around One Day.  This is a life that is lived in regret, sacrificed to the past and I Should Have.  It’s about the choices you think you Should Have made and how you are a slave to those results, today.  You cease to be in control of today because you allow the Should Have of the past to determine who you are today and who you will be tomorrow.

I can understand the attraction of Should Have.  It’s scary to look down the barrel of life and to think that you’re living a life that you chose.  It’s much more of a comfort to believe that your actions today won’t change anything – that you’re the victim of those that would control you, or of your own past choices.  Being under the control of your past choices is the best one because it’s guilt that makes its own gravy!

Should Have assures you that each day of your life is lived in prison.  I worked with one particular gentleman who didn’t like his job, not at all.  He didn’t like his wife – I think he was afraid of her.  Pretty sure he didn’t even like where he lived.  And you could see it wear on him, every day.  Why did he do it?  Honestly, I’m not sure – I think he might have liked his Prison more than the scary idea of being responsible for himself.

There is, thankfully, a third choice, and it comes back to Ryan’s question from the beginning of this post:  “What does your ideal day look like?”  That’s crazy, because the question itself implies a choice.  You could live your ideal day.  Not every day, perhaps, but many of them.

If you live the Eternal Tuesday, your ideal day is One Day.  If you live in Prison, your ideal day is release from Should Have, which, unfortunately, is also your life.  Neither of those sound too good, but both sound better than the whole Rosie O’Donnell marriage thing.  I imagine she smells like 7-11® nacho cheese left over from the Clinton era.

rosie

Comment redacted.

However, if you live a life of Now, you realize something pretty cool – in almost every moment of your life, the past three seconds were okay, and the next three seconds are okay.  While you don’t have the ability to change your past, you have the ability to choose how you feel about today.  This paragraph is from the conclusion to One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, written by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn:

Shukov went to sleep fully content.  He’d had many strokes of luck that day:  They hadn’t put him in the cells; they hadn’t sent his squad to the settlement; he’d swiped a bowl of kasha at dinner; the squad leader had fixed the rates well; he’d built a wall and enjoyed doing it; he’d smuggled a bit of hacksaw blade through; he’d earned a favor from Tsezar, he’d bought that tobacco.

And he hadn’t fallen ill.  He’d got over it.  A day without a dark cloud.  Almost a happy day.  There were three thousand six hundred and fifty three days like that in his stretch.  From the first clang of the cell to the last clang of the cell.  Three thousand six hundred and fifty three days.

The three extra days were for leap years.

ivandenisovich

Apparently the Soviets didn’t teach drawing in kindergarten – no time for such trifles:  Soviet Youth must be strong to plant potato on Collective Farm #8675309.  (Ask for Jennyski.)

I recommend the book.  Short read, with a decent ending that I just (mildly) spoiled above.  I’m not going to apologize for a spoiler on a book that was published 56 years ago, because if I do, you’ll just be upset when I tell you that Soylent Green is people or that Bruce Willis is really one of the dead people, or that the people from Atlantis killed Kennedy.

In your next three seconds, you will be okay.  I’m not telling you that you don’t have to be concerned about the future, and I’m not telling you that your choices in the past don’t determine your present.  Both of those things are absolutely true.  But living in the future is a lie, and being chained to the past is a torture.  You have now.  So, if you want to fight to make the world better, yes, please do so!  I try to do that daily.  This blog is part of it.  And though my present actions are limited by my past choices, I still have it in my power to do amazing things with every year that I have left to me.

I’ve spent time in the Eternal Tuesday, that’s why I can describe it so well.  In the Eternal Tuesday one day blends into the next.  I kept putting off things that I wanted to do, because I’d do them One Day.  I sifted through my memories trying to give an example, but I simply can’t think of anything interesting to tell you about an Eternal Tuesday – it’s always Tuesday.  Always grey, always featureless, and not a lot happens until you wake up and realize a year of your life has passed without you noticing.  It’s like being in Congress, I think, but with less self-loathing.

I’ve lived in my own Prison of the Past, too.  Mainly for a fairly short time, but it’s a dark place to be.  In my case, the prison was brought about by internal office politics – even if you try to stay out of them – I assure you that they will take an interest in you.  I’m not even saying I’m blameless – if I didn’t cause the situation, I certainly didn’t manage to stay out of them.  But I escaped each of them either by taking action to change them, or, like Shukov in the quote above, I’d managed to understand that I could be happy with my life as it was right now, not to be upset that it wasn’t how I wanted it to be, but still work with every fiber of my being to make my life better.

But you have the power in your hands to make today your ideal day, and you’re not married to Rosie O’Donnell.

So, why not give that a shot?  (The ideal day thing, not the marriage to Rosie.)

A Wilder Story, or, The BB Gun, The Black Bear, The Soviets, and Me

“You’ll put your eye out.” – A Christmas Story

bear bbgun

Nobody was too concerned with my eyes.  But do NOT make us have to pay for a neighbor’s window.

I’m a believer in Christmas – it’s a time of redemption and rebirth that proves that miracles can happen.  People can escape their past, and become something more than they were before – they can become reborn.  We can become better.  The birth of Christ is an example that we can all be reborn and change our lives in a miraculous and meaningful way.

But, I’m not sure I can recall any particular Christmas miracles.

Oh, wait, here’s one.  It’s mostly true, as well as I can recall, and field tested to read aloud to your family:

On Christmas Day when I was in second grade, the one thing I wanted more than anything else was . . . a BB-Gun.  No, this is not a remake of A Christmas Story, this is A Wilder Story.  And I was there for this one.  As I recall, this was the last Christmas when we opened Christmas presents on Christmas morning.  In all following years, my older brother John Wilder and I wheedled our parents into a Christmas Eve opening of everything but “Santa” gifts.  We were insufferable.  My brother (really) is also named John Wilder – my parents didn’t want to waste those extra birth announcements when they could just change the day and year, but that’s another story.

But that particular Christmas morning when I was in second grade I looked down on a real-life lever-action Daisy® BB-gun.  It looked like a real rifle even though the wood parts were plastic.  I’d never shot a real rifle before, but I knew that all I wanted for Christmas was that BB-gun.  And there it was, all mine, pristine in its oiled metal and plastic perfection.

daisy

It looked very real.  Mine was the one on the bottom.  It was actually mistaken for a real gun several times.  Mainly by me, because everyone who was an adult could see it was just a BB gun.

“Take care of that, and it’ll last you a long time, Son,” Pop said as he handed me my first gun.  This was the first time he’d said that to me, and I nodded gravely, feeling the responsibility and pride deep inside me.  Pop would later repeat that phrase about boots I got in high school, a Buck© pocket knife I got in fifth grade, and my first car.  I still have the BB gun and the boots.  I lost the knife, probably at school.  It was expected then that you had a knife with you if you were in fifth grade, because what if you had to clean a fish during English class?

But I was in second grade, and I had a BB gun.  My BB gun.

And I was ready to use it.  I was given a quick tutorial on how to load it, a list of all the things (mainly windows), people (mainly windows), places (our windows), and forbidden objects (neighbor’s windows) that I shouldn’t even think of aiming my BB gun at, let alone shoot.  I was trusted to take my new BB gun on an expedition, because it was made clear to me in no uncertain terms that the worst punishment in the world would fall upon me if I shot something I shouldn’t.  I would lose (probably until I was 40) my BB gun, be grounded from TV until I had my own children and probably be branded as a BB abuser for the rest of my life in my Permanent Record.  (For kids:  Permanent Record is now called Snapchat©.)

With the earnestness only a second grader can muster, I put on my deep blue Sears™ parka (the ad said it was designed for pilots stationed in . . . the ARCTIC, you know, where we fought the Soviets to save Santa from becoming, I guess, more Red) with polyester fur trim, and a pocket for pens and pencils on the arm, because where else would you keep pens and pencils except your left arm?  I pulled on my black felt-lined snow boots and stiff green plastic gloves, and went outside.  It was cold, certainly below freezing, and probably hovering around zero in non-communist degrees.

sears

Like a pocket knife, every boy had a parka like this.  Every boy. But does anyone know why pilots need parkas if they’re in heated jet airplanes??  Oh, yeah.  Soviets.  Image from E-Bay.

It had already snowed enough that the snow pile in our front yard was 10 feet (43 meters) deep, but we had a packed trail where our snowmobiles had gone onto the snow-packed country road and up into miles of forest roads that dated back to the old prospectors looking for gold way back before Carter was president.

My feet crunched in the snow as I walked due north onto the road, my breath puffing out as if from a small blue fake-fur-trimmed steam engine headed uphill.  I kept going.  What was I looking for?  I’m not sure – I don’t remember, exactly.  I guess, looking at stuff with a BB gun in my hand and shooting anything that wouldn’t get me in trouble with Ma Wilder at the rate of 6 BBs per step.  But I felt like a man, and what would a man with a rifle do?  Hunt.  Win World War II again.  Look for communists.  It’s hazy, but I know I had a purpose.

Snakes weren’t a possibility, since I knew snakes wintered in Florida with baseball players, Santa and the Cubans.  Regardless, I wanted to shoot my BB gun, even if the opportunities to send Soviets back to Russia with a backside full of BBs was limited, at best.  I still don’t recall ever seeing a Soviet in the forest until I saw Red Dawn, and then my BB gun was at home.

reddawn

I guess Europe decided to sit this one out.

I trundled up the road.  I think that’s probably the only time I’ve used the word “trundled” precisely since it implies I moved along slowly, noisily, and in a less than graceful manner.  All of those applied.  But I was ten feet tall with my BB gun, shooting aimed fire into snow banks and sage brush alike.  About a half a mile from my house, more than three quarters of the way to the Old Cemetery, I saw it.

The Bear.

Sitting motionless, huddled against the barbed wire fence, not 20’ away, was the bear.  It was a black bear.  I knew that grizzly bears had been killed nearby, but this was a definitely a black bear, being black and all.  Ma Wilder had told me about them before going hiking and told me to never, ever get between a black bear cub and its mother – she said that was more dangerous than being between Beto O’Rourke and a microphone.  I didn’t know if this bear was cub-sized or mother-sized, but I already knew that this was something way out of my experience level – I mean I still wasn’t even coloring within the lines very well.  Communists?  Sure, I could take down a dozen of them since they were weak because they were Godless and fatherless and mainly starving when they weren’t swilling massive quantities of cheap Afghan vodka.

But bears?  Better call the reinforcements (spelled D-A-D) in.

wilderbear

Calling out an APB on a tiny blonde boy.  He looked tasty.

I backed away from the bear, keeping my eyes on it the whole time.  My BB gun was loaded, a precious brass sphere ready to explode outward on a column of pressurized air at the bear should it charge me.  I knew I was too slow to out-trundle the bear.  Even my candy-cane addled brain knew that the BB was scant protection against a bear, but if I was going to go down, I was going to go down fighting like a man, and not running away like a Soviet child would.  Even though it was nearly zero, I built up a sweat in my green turtle neck under my Air Force Pilot Parka®.

That green turtle-neck was really tight and made me look a lot like an actual turtle, so I only wore it three times.  Why?  A chubby kid covered in the smell of fear sweat and Nacho Cheese Doritos™ isn’t really a winner with the ladies despite whatever Bill Clinton might say.

An aside:  In the safe realm of 2018, I know that it seems insane to allow a second grader to hike up into the forested wilderness alone at temperatures near zero on Christmas morning armed with a weapon that’s patently illegal to arm a second grader with in New York City, and twenty other states that are, no doubt, now deeply under the influence of the Soviets.  Or, does it?   When I last had a second grader (Pugsley) he had a BB gun and trundled off into the backyard with a zillion BBs.  I can attest our backyard is now safely Soviet-free.  But back in the day?  We weren’t building weak Soviet children.  No!  We had backbones of steel and cheap Taiwanese Rambo® knives with compasses built into the handle.

So, yeah, not unusual.  I guess it was a crazy thing called freedom.  Anyway . . .

I got back to the house and threw open the door.  I stamped my snow-covered feet inside.  Yeah, I know.  But I was in a hurry, I had real news and information for the family.

My parents were lounging on the couch, enjoying a quiet coffee.

“A BEAR!”  I yelled.

“I swear, I saw it, a bear!  It was just right up the road, right where the hill starts.  A bear!  A black one!”

Ma looked at Pop, concerned.

Pop Wilder shook his head.  “Bears are hibernating.  None are up this time of year, not when it’s this cold.”

“No, it was there, right by the fence.”

Ma Wilder nudged him, seeing the absolute certainty on my face.  “We should take a look.”

There is a look a man gives a woman when he knows that he has lost the argument even before it started.  I know that look because I saw it then.  Pop sighed, got up, and got dressed.  Half an hour later, he and Ma and my brother were all dressed, and ready to go up the road.  I had my BB gun.  I hoped that the bear would still be there.

We walked.  I pointed, when the Bear came into sight, not 300 yards away.

“See, I told you.”

Ma Wilder looked concerned when she saw visual proof of my story.  I think she had put my bear story into the category of “addled ravings of an overly imaginative eight year old that may or may not process reality like a normal human after he told me that he was worried that Grandma would turn into a zombie (Sleep Deprivation, Health, Zombies, and B-Movies).”  As for me, I was concerned that Pop hadn’t brought bazookas, howitzers, grenades, or maybe a battleship.  Nah, Pop Wilder could probably wrestle a dozen or so bears, if they came up to him one at a time, like in the Kung Fu movies.  We finally got up to the road where we were perpendicular to the black bear, still huddled up against the fence, not 30 feet (432 meters) away.  It hadn’t moved since I’d first seen it.  I felt vindicated, even though I’d never heard the word.

“Hand me the BB gun,” said Pop Wilder.

I did.

Pop shot one BB into the bear, smoothly worked the lever like a cowboy in the Old West, and then shot another BB into the bear.

The bear was motionless.  It must be dead!  Pop Wilder killed it!  Pop handed the BB gun back to me.

He then walked back into the deep snow directly to the bear, reached out, and pulled up the black, plastic sheeting that had blown into a ball up against the fence.

He handed me back the BB gun and handed my brother the black plastic sheet.  We walked home in silence.

So, there was that:  the Miracle of the Transubstantiation of the Bear – where a Christmas miracle transmuted a black bear into a sheet of black plastic.  Not sure of any other explanation.

But the real Christmas miracle, it’s below?  Merry Christmas to all.

Christmas