American Factory and Thoughts on the Future American Economy

“China is here, Mr. Burton. The Chang Sing, the Wing Kong?  They’ve been fighting for centuries.” – Big Trouble in Little China

CAMO

I mean, the camo looks so good, maybe they wanted to show it off?

I watched the documentary American Factory this weekend, and it seemed like a good jumping off point to discuss several topics – globalization, employment, and Jenga®.  In 2008, the General Motors® plant in Dayton, Ohio was closed during GM’s© bankruptcy.  According to American Factory (now streaming on Netflix®), 10,000 people in the Dayton area lost their jobs when the factory closed.  In this current climate, I’m trying to come up with more unemployment jokes, but they all need work.

Fast forward to 2016, and a Chinese company, Fuyao Glass America®, started a new business making windshields for cars in the old GM© plant.  Fuyao bought the empty factory and spent on the order of $500 million dollars setting up the glass factory.  Then Fuyao brought hundreds of Chinese supervisors over to start the facility and train the American workers.  This makes sense – you don’t want to come across an ocean and have an employee like me when I sold used cars.  One customer, looking at a minivan, asked me, “Cargo space?”

I answered, “Car no fly.  Car go road.”  Obviously that didn’t go very well.

One of these Chinese supervisors mentioned that he was committed to stay for two years.  This was a father of two, and he’d receive no extra pay for being away from his family.  The Chinese supervisors were sleeping four to an apartment with furniture from the offices supplies aisle at Wal-Mart™.  Living with a roommate is tough.  One roommate suggested I had schizophrenia.  The joke was on him – I didn’t even have a roommate.

POSTER

Poster from the documentary.  That’s it.  No joke.  Move along.

Clips from workers talking as they were just starting their work at Fuyao made it clear that the Fuyao jobs were nowhere near the pay of the GM© jobs:  At GM™, one worker made about $29 an hour in quality control until the plant closed.  In the new Fuyao plant, she made less than $13 an hour.  I talked to a local dog breeder about a summer job for Pugsley.  She said that she only paid in expensive pure-bred puppies.  Pugsley thought about it, and decided it was income-petable.

And the work is tougher than the GM® work was.  The temperature in some parts of the production area was 200°F, or about 63 kilograms.  One worker spent over an hour a shift in ten minute increments in that heat in the furnace room, and the plant safety guy was trying to figure out how to keep him from overheating.  But that level of heat had a plus side:  during the filming I saw two hobbits throw a ring in the furnace room.

What surprised me was that the Chinese gave such access to the people making the documentary.  They caught candid moments with the Fuyao founder, Cao Dewang, (called simply “Chairman Cao”) throughout the documentary.  There were moments where he was clearly doubtful, arrogant, or out of touch.  We all have those moments, but most of the time billionaires try to avoid looking stupid in public.  I mean, except Elon Musk.

ELON

I kid.  I actually admire Mr. Musk, who seems to be able to do what NASA forgot.  Fly people into space.

On starting the plant, production levels were described as “low” so Fuyao took the step of sending several of its plant supervisors to China.  The clash of cultures was obvious at the start of the documentary, but it was during the sequence in China that really showed the difference in the way Americans and Chinese do business.

The conflict started at the first meeting.  All of the Chinese business people were in suits.  Most of the Americans were in jeans and t-shirts – one of them was wearing a Jaws® movie t-shirt.  In what was probably pretty embarrassing for the Americans, in the next scene you see them wearing Fuyao company logo polo shirts.  How did that conversation go?  “Excuse me, perhaps you would be more comfortable in a new company polo shirt and not your mustard-covered t-shirt advertising a forty year old movie?”

But it was far, far beyond just the informal dress that’s common with line supervisors in a factory.  One sequence showed all of the employees singing the corporate anthem.  Another showed line production employees in a line, yelling out productivity slogans and propaganda like Marines responding to R. Lee Ermey when he was a drill instructor.

LUNCH

They were all out of bat.

One of the American supervisors (who had learned Chinese) was bad-mouthing his employees to a Chinese supervisor.  To me, the American supervisor came across as someone who would do anything to make the Chinese like him – he was a suck-up.  After one negative comment about his own team, the Chinese supervisor said, “You should all be united and concentrate your efforts.”  It was a subtle but nuclear insult – the Chinese supervisor was slamming the American for not being united with his own workers.  And the Chinese supervisor was right.

KIM

So, refresh the page.  Am I still dead?

And working in China sounds as bad as I’d expected.  Workers typically only get one or two days off a month – a five day work week hasn’t made it to China yet.  The workers also work 12 hour shifts.  The Chinese want their workers engaged in the company.

In fact, the American supervisors were there for the company annual Chinese New Year party, where the show was put on entirely by the employees.  And as for engaged?  There were several marriages performed at the company party.  One of the Americans was so overcome with the sense of belonging around him that he was as emotional as a teenage girl watching Titanic.  Me?  I like my emotions like I like my beer.  Bottled.

A quick trip through the Fuyao workers union (which is also the company’s communist party headquarters) showed that the division between company, country, party, and worker is non-existent.  The Chinese are certain that they are superior to Americans – several times in the film this is stated by Chinese people on camera.  But they are also very proud of being Chinese – when Chairman Cao was talking to his Chinese employees in America, he told that that no matter where they go, or where they are buried, that first and foremost they will always be Chinese.

China is nationalist, (mostly) ethnically homogeneous, and unambiguously pro-Chinese at the expense of everyone else on the planet.  Work is for the government and the party.  Why are the Muslims in China in reeducation camps?  Because Islam isn’t Chinese.  China is a country built on unity and Islam isn’t on the menu.  And if you’re not on board?

SOUP

Literally.   

Next, Fuyao fired the plant manager when production and profits were too low, but it was probably the lawsuits on safety that sent him over the top.  The plant manager had been an American – they replaced him with a Chinese guy.  I’ve actually seen this in real life in one company I did business with.  When things weren’t going well, the owners fired the American and replaced him with a person from their country.  I mean, if you’re going to yell at the guy, you probably don’t want to do it through a translator.

The documentary ended with increasing tensions ahead of a vote to bring in a union.

I’m torn.  Nearly every union person I’ve ever worked with has been the opposite of what I see on television.  They’ve worked hard and with great skill.  But to listen to a labor organizer for a union talk makes me feel nothing but that I want to keep one hand on my wallet.  They have a sense of entitlement that seeks to make the worker feel that they are a victim, and to a certain mindset that’s an easy sell.  One person who early in the documentary had been so thankful to have a job, any job, had now put himself in the role of a victim at a union meeting.  Heck, in America we even have unions for pirates – but their claims always end up in arrrrbitration.

As noted above, safety and adherence to American laws wasn’t really a Chinese priority, at least at first.  But with the union vote on the line, the Chinese gave a $2 per hour raise across the board and the Plant Manager committed to solving most problems in just one day.  The plant workers voted to reject becoming unionized, by a 2-1 landslide.  After that, the Chinese terminated several vocal union supporters, but since this wasn’t China, that wasn’t a literal termination.

Some thoughts that this movie brought out:

  • The Chinese like being Chinese, and like being around Chinese people. They don’t have much use for everybody else on the planet except economically.  I’m sure they keep visiting the United States to measure to make sure that their stuff will fit.
  • A factory worker used to be able to support a family as a sole breadwinner. The same can be said of the skilled trades.  Immigration (illegal and legal) destroyed this because demand for jobs didn’t increase, while numbers of workers did.  “Greedy” factory owners get blamed, but the reality is open borders means all jobs that don’t require certificates or diplomas are under pressure from about several billion people willing to do it cheaper, especially if it can be done over the phone by “Bob” from Bangladesh.
  • Every union worker I’ve worked with has been awesome. Every union organizer I’ve ever seen on a documentary has reminded me of a conman.
  • This documentary showed the aftermath of the outsourcing of American manufacturing, a transition that has been ongoing since 1995.
  • The next economic transition is upon us. The new jobs that will be created are going to be quite a bit different than the ones disappearing.
  • The Mrs.’ Grandmother would offer her a shiny nickel to rub her corns. There’s a job that won’t be taken away soon.
  • The documentary ended with discussions on how the Chinese were trying to automate the factory even more – replacing workers with robots. It was less than thirty seconds of the documentary and the equivalent of writing something at the end of the essay that you wanted to write about but forgot.  Given Chinese recent history with something as simple as eating bats, I imagine that automation will turn into automated killer robots that will kill all of humanity.  But, hey, productivity is up!!!

VARMINT

I purchased some suspenders a few weeks ago.  Pugsley immediately pounced.  “Want me to get your varmint rifle, Pa?”

I’d like to think that globalization is doomed, however I read a story two weeks ago about a surgical mask and protective equipment maker in Dallas.  During the Swine Flu wave back in 2012, the owner had expanded capacity to meet with demand.  What did the buyers do after the rush?  They went back to sourcing from China.  The owner was left with high unemployment insurance cost and new equipment that he had to pay for even though it was unused.

This time, the owner was more than happy to expand production, but he’d only do it on a long-term contract.  Last I heard?  No takers.

But nah, I’m sure that we’ll figure out that at least partially, globalization was what made our economy so fragile that a virus could cause it to collapse like a Jenga® game played by a drunk Michael J. Fox.

Celebrate National Blame Someone Else Day With A True Story About The Cat and I In A Duel To The Death* (*Death Not Included)

“Blame Canada!  Blame Canada!  It seems that everything’s gone wrong since Canada came along.  Blame Canada!  Blame Canada!” – South Park:  Bigger, Longer, and Uncut

CONNERY

God Shave the Queen.

In honor of National It’s Somebody Else’s Fault Day (the first Friday the 13th of the year, and no, I’m not making this up, it’s an actual holiday), I provide the following true story that happened to me last week:

It started with the cat.

Actually, our cat.  The Family Wilder has a cat.  Sort of.  This particular cat started out, optimistically, as an inside cat.  When The Mrs. and Pugsley “found” it at the pet store and brought it home, I understood.  They were sad that we were catless.  Without cat.  Feline free.

We had previously had two cats, Cisco® and Frisco, but over time they disappeared when adventures that they were attempting went tragically wrong off screen.  The cats went out, and never came back.  That’s why I understood that they wanted another one, especially since Cisco© and Frisco were great cats.

Cisco® and Frisco were nice, polite, clean, and calm.  The Boy had named Cisco™ after our wifi router, which at least is better than naming the cat Ford Taurus®.  Frisco got his name because it rhymed with Cisco™.  I was okay with that.  Why was I okay with naming cats with names that sounded so much alike?  Because they’re cats, and I have learned that with long hours or intense focus and training, you can train a cat to do exactly what it was going to do anyway.

TOUCH

You could tell – he was always having hissy fits.

This new cat, Rory, was a mess from the start.  Instead of a bundle of fur and purr as a kitten, it was instead a bundle of hate and spite and peeing in the hall closet.  If Satan had a cat, it would be afraid of Rory.  So, we hung garlic ‘round the doors and crucifixes ‘round the window sashes and banished Rory to being an outside cat.

My family, however, has the weak will of the type that doesn’t allow people to tell Madonna that what talent she had left her just like Sean Penn did, and at the same time back in the 1940’s or whenever.  The Mrs. especially lets Rory in from time to time.  Either that or Rory has developed a ninja-like ability to flow through the shadows and silently through the doorway when we go in and out.  I don’t believe it’s a ninja since essentially it’s just a big orange rat.

RORY

The Mrs. buys Rory soft cat food, yet won’t allow me to buy him a trebuchet.

One morning, I was on a vacation day, and was alone in the house.

Or so I thought.

Inside there was also . . . Rory.  I saw it dart through the kitchen.  Rory avoids me because whenever I see it, I throw it out.  This is exactly what I decided to do right then and there when I saw it – throw it out.  I chased it, and it ran downstairs.  Since the kitchen has baby gates to keep The Mrs. barking-minions inside, I closed the baby gates to better corral Rory if it had the bad judgement to try and return upstairs.

After a few minutes Rory came back upstairs from the basement.  It ran into the dining room.  I got it to run out from under the dining table.  It was spooked, and was just a furry flash across the kitchen tile away from me.  Now, the first time Rory ran through the kitchen, the baby gate was open.  Not this time.

The maximum speed of a housecat is approximately thirty miles per hour.  This was the speed at which Rory ran head first into the bars of the now-closed baby gate.

The thunk of metal and skull attempting to occupy the same space was exactly as you’d expect.  If you’ve ever seen a cartoon cat run directly into a dirigible mooring tower owned by the Kaiser and then sit with stars orbiting around its head, well, this was exactly that.  Rory sat there, dazed, just long enough to tease me into thinking that I could catch him.

BABY

Okay, I couldn’t really see the stars, but I knew they were there.

Realizing the large bald man was still chasing him, Rory looked back at me through the haze of concussion and then jumped over the baby gate.

Or, it would have jumped over the baby gate had the stars not been obscuring its cat vision.  As Rory lept in the cat-addled state it found itself in, it didn’t jump quite high enough to clear the baby gate, and as a result, Rory’s back left leg got stuck in the bars of the baby gate.

If you’ve never seen a disoriented cat stuck half over a baby gate, well, you haven’t lived.  I’ll give you a hint – they’re rarely happy cats.  I tried to extract Rory from his predicament, despite having read what Mark Twain wrote about exactly this situation:

SHANIA

Okay, it was really Mark.  But he didn’t look this good in leather pants.

Trying to free a near-feral and likely demonic cat summoned from another dimension where Cthulhu slumbers until the stars are right for its terrible return is necessary.  Especially if said demonic cat has a hip that is stuck on the side of the baby gate opposite of the demonic cat head.

You may not realize it, but angry cats can be pointy even if you are holding on to them by the scruff of their neck.  For some reason, cats don’t like having a concussion and then wandering into a cat version of a torture device and then being lifted by their neck skin by the human that chased them into the concussion in the first place.

Go figure.

Did you realize that a cat can move its front leg just like Michael Phelps swimming through a bathtub filled with mayonnaise?  It can.  And did you know, that in addition to the four claws on the paw, that cats have a fifth one, sort of like a thumb a just behind the other four?

They do.

And as a cat swims that claw flail-ingly into the air trying to get free, that it can reach all the way back and connect to the hand holding it by the scruff of the neck?

When that claw entered the exact center of the back of my hand, it was connected to a cat.

The cat seemed to be bothered even more that, in addition to having a concussion and a nearly dislocated hip that it found its right paw paralyzed, because its claw was firmly stuck deep in the back of my hand.  What did the cat focus on?  Freeing the claw that was firmly stuck in the back of my hand.  Rory jerked his leg back and forth, but found that it the claw was still firm stuck in the leathery sheath that is my skin.  Inside the skin, the point of the claw sliced back and forth against all the internal bits, especially that internal tube that moves the blood into (or out of, I don’t have them labeled) my hand.

SCRATCH

He wore paw-jamas to bed.

I reached with my free hand and pulled the claw out of my flesh.  After freeing the claw I realized immediately that the claw was the only thing that had kept the blood on the inside of my body.  Freed of the stopper, immediately the rich, dark blood started gushing like Dracula’s Super-Soaker® at summer camp.  I took three quick steps to the sink, and turned on the faucet.  There I was confronted with a dilemma.  In one hand, I had a cat that was behaving like a jackhammer attached to a cactus.  In the other?  The water from the faucet was washing the amazingly large amount of blood away from my hand.  Whenever I pulled my hand away from the water?  Rivers of blood formed.  But I still had a cat attempting to imitate John Travolta being electrocuted in the other hand.  I was one hand short.

Without really thinking, I grabbed with the cat hand (as opposed to the blood hand) and grabbed at the paper towels.  Of course, they didn’t rip but instead the whole roll spun away on the tile, leaving me with a carpet of paper towel connected to the bunched up, blood soaked paper towel that I was holding to the back of my hand . . . with my cat hand.  Thankfully, the combination of paper towel and cat soaked up enough blood so that the path to the back door didn’t look like young Jack the Ripper’s path on the playground slide.

HAND

I really nailed woodshop in junior high.  I really liked the teacher, Coach Sevenfingers.

At the back door, I used my bloody hand to open the door, and threw Rory out with my paper towel hand.  I then slammed the door.

There was a sickening thud as the door attempted to close and then bounced back.

Oh, crap.  I had slammed the door, but I had slammed it on the cat.  I looked down, expecting to see an angry cat that was now paralyzed because I had inadvertently crushed his spine with the door.

No.

It was an oven mitt.  Even despite the blood, I was relieved to see it was an oven mitt and not the cat.

Somehow, in grabbing the paper towel to stop my house from looking like Hannibal Lecter’s kitchen, I had accidentally grabbed an oven mitt along with the paper towel, and partially threw the mitt out of the house when I attempted to give the cat an orbital velocity out of the house that Elon Musk would be proud of.

I looked down at my wrecked hand.

Amazingly, there was only one, tiny hole in the back of the hand after it stopped bleeding.  But the flesh on the back was swelling like Johnny Depp’s ego as I watched.  I got some more paper towel, soaked it in hydrogen peroxide, and elevated the hand and applied pressure so it didn’t swell to the size of Robert Downey, Junior’s ego.  I even (briefly) considered emailing my certified medical adviser, Aesop (LINK).  Instead, I remembered that this was (more or less) exactly the place where people got intravenous thingies put into their hand, so it would probably heal.

A week later, it’s still tender.

In honor of National It’s Somebody Else’s Fault Day, I blame Rory.  Your mileage may vary.

And I’m sticking to that story, just like a cat claw in the back of a hand.

Complacency, An English King, Elon Musk, and Bikinis

“Well, perhaps what we most needed was a kick in our complacency to prepare us for what lies ahead.” – Star Trek, TNG

dinos

Q:  Why can’t dinosaurs clap?  A:  They’re all dead.

Once upon a time The Mrs. and I bought a piece of bare land to build a house on, and not a Lego® one like they make in California.  The land was in a county that had (eye roll) rules about that sort of thing.  In order to get a permit to build the house, we had to have our land approved as a subdivision.  We did it the old fashioned way – we did it ourselves.  We prepared the relevant paperwork, hired the surveyor, and worked with the county zoning staff to present it to the Zoning Commission.  After discussing it at the meeting, and observing the property, the chairman of the commission stated:

“Mr. Wilder, the commission would like to reserve a 40’ foot strip of land along the north boundary to put in a road at some future point.  In your zoning packet, we’re going to add that you will deed us this land at no cost if we ever decide to build said road.”

That was over an acre.

The Commission Chairman must have seen the expression on my face.  I’ll admit it, I wasn’t pleased.  I felt, based on my law degree of “reading the Constitution” that this was a clear violation.  It was, I felt, a “taking” of my land with no compensation.  Even though I didn’t say a word, and wasn’t wearing a Gadsden Flag t-shirt, I think he knew right where my head was.

GADSDEN

Snek no lyke step.

“Now, Mr. Wilder, you understand that we as a Commission have a duty, a duty not only to those living here for today, but for those not living yet.  Why, this subdivision will be recorded and be in force for the next thousand years.”  I don’t recall the next sentence, because I really couldn’t believe what I had just heard.

The next thousand years?  Was he taking the same kind of drugs that Bernie does?

The Mrs. and I finished our turn at the podium for the meeting.  We left and went outside.  The Mrs. beat me to the punch.

“The next thousand years?  Was he serious???  What an idiot.”  We actually still joke about it to this day.  You would have been proud of her scoff when I read it to her tonight.  It was perfect.

We had both focused on the same sentence.  It was pompous.  It was self-important.  It was delusional.  It was . . . complacent.

The idea that the governance, the structure, or even a culture that respected property rights would follow a continuous path for a thousand years was deluded.  1,000 years ago, the Danes ruled Norway and England as well as Denmark under King Cnut (yes, that’s spelled right) the Great.  Ever hear of him?  Well let me tell you if you misspell his name just one time in an e-mail to Karen, you’ll have to spend an hour explaining old English history to HR so you can prove you really meant that Karen was displaying the wisdom that old King Cnut was cnown for.

knaren

Yeah, just like Karen, the Commission Chairman was a Cnut.

That more or less proves my point.  I doubt that the records of that subdivision named the “Free Autonomous Reserve Tract” will even exist in a thousand years.  It could be that whatever emerges from the nearly certain Musk Cat Girls on Mars© Uprising of 2257 or the Amazon™ slave rebellion of 2856 against Bezosclone4651 don’t destroy the records, but don’t bet on it.

Elon

Elon apparently has a different version of Cat Scratch Fever.

Expecting a county commission’s decisions to be relevant 1,000 years into the future was an outrageous example, but it proves the point I’m trying to make.  Often, we get so complacent in our day-to-day lives that we’re willing to believe incredible things that we normally would scoff at, like, oh, Joe Biden doesn’t have dementia.  I mean, it’s normal to answer the question, “What is your vision for health care?” with “I remember when it was polite for a man to call a woman a ham-handed yellow-teethed hammer soaker before you made sweet love to them in the back of your tree fort, I mean if you had a dozen or more.  Pinecones, right?  Those were the days when you could rub my legs and watch the hair spring back up and the wood elves would play music for hours on their nose harp.  Ever have a nose harp?  We did, but you could call women broads then, because they liked to get you coffee, what with the skirts and pantyhose and all.  Canada.  And if you don’t like it, you can damn well vote for that Reagan fellow.”

One way I choose topics to write about is I want to look at a subject I know something about, and then dig deeper.  My idea is that often one of the biggest dangers was well defined by Mark Twain:  “What gets us into trouble is not what we don’t know. It’s what we know for sure that just ain’t so.”

It’s a shame Twain never learned to write properly and not use “ain’t” – maybe if he had his career would have gone somewhere like mine has.  Anyway, when I find a disconnect like Twain described, or new information that’s something that I like to write about.

But when I can find that same situation and tie it directly to a problem or situation in society today?

That’s perfect.

Okay, nearly perfect.  It has to be interesting, too.  The relative changes in the combustibility of dryer lint throughout the twentieth century might be not what you expected, but it’s probably not particularly interesting, unless you like to burn dryer lint as a hobby, which I hear is what Jeb Bush is into now, at least when it’s group craft time.

TWAIN

Okay, that’s actually “lightning and lightning bug.”  

I really like learning new things, and I learned something new today:  One thing I like writing about, and keep returning to as a nearly constant theme here is:  complacency.  It’s evident when I write about the economic system (Rome, Britain, and Money: Why You Can’t Find Fine China after the Apocalypse), or prepping (Be Prep-ared) or really nearly any topic I write about.  And I try to live by my advice.

In my life, I try not to be complacent about:

  • Relationships: Love is a voluntary choice.  Being complacent about those around you is a good way to lose a relationship, and that can be expensive.  But, for certain people, it’s worth it.  (That’s an ex-wife joke.)
  • Jobs: Jobs come and go, even within companies.  I have seen entire departments disappear as technology made people irrelevant.  Always be learning new skills, or at least be learning more about the “niece” of your boss.
  • Value of Money: When I was a boy, Bernie Sanders would shine a shinbone for a nickel.  Now?  I think he wants to expand Medicare to do that.
  • Economic Future: The stock market will always go up, right?  Well, no.  Sometimes
  • Limits of Human Knowledge: Much of what is science is a fad, to be replaced by new science in a few years.  Not so much with math.  Mostly not with physics.  Medicine?  75% of it is washing your hands and eating right.  20% is antibiotics.  5% is not step on snek.  And Aesop will change all of these percentages if he gets this far.

Wilder, Wealthy and Wise is absolutely against complacency.  I don’t like complacency.  I like finding places where it has snuck into my life or I see it sneaking into the lives of others.  I especially like sharing things that help people see complacency in their own lives, because then I don’t have to change anything about me.

That moment when I’ve written something, and I imagine that someone’s entire world view changed?

That moment is why I write, though some of you might say that for a writer, I’m a fairly competent typist.  Regardless, that’s the enjoyment I get from this, besides the jokes and the bikinis.  I want to create discomfort in me.  And in you.  And also be able to explain to The Mrs. why I spend so much time looking at bikini pictures.

“Research, dear.  It’s for my readers.”  Oh, the things I put myself through for you.

dogkini

At least it’s not another Kardashian.  But I think the dog has less hair.

Back to complacency.  When it comes to life and health, how often do you step back and question your basic, underlying assumptions?  If never, you should.  How often are they wrong?  If never, then you’re not testing them hard enough.

Assumptions change because circumstances change.  A forty year old metabolism isn’t the same as a twenty year old metabolism.  If you eat like you’re twenty when you’re forty and fifty, you’ll end up weighing 657 pounds and being buried in a piano box.  I guess the good part about that is “all the Oreos®,” and being able to dress convincingly as Jabba the Hut® at Halloween, but the downside is attractive slave girls cost more than you think.

Assumptions change because knowledge changes – we were wrong.  All of us.  Sugar used to be great for you, it was a carbohydrate, and those were good.  But fat?  Fat was bad, as bad as John Travolta acting in a movie that requires his character to be able to use words of more than one syllable bad.  Everyone knew that, and they were right.  But only about Travolta.  Companies even made fat-free cookies in special green packages so you could know that you were safe eating them.  But in 2020, we know that’s insanity.

Lkini

But I hear Darth Braider did her hair.

What circumstances have changed in your life that you need to account for?  What will be changing?

As for knowledge, what does “everyone know” that’s wrong today?  That’s tougher.  I think that the news about sugar (for instance) started to show up in more than “fad” levels about the year 2000, a good 20 years after the war on fat in food began.  Pay attention.  And if something seems too good to be true, it probably isn’t.

Complacency.  Heck, I’ve made mistakes.

Probably enough for 1,000 years.  Just ask Karen.  She’s quite a Cnut.

Dangit.  It’s HR again.  FCUK©.

(FCUK™, of course is the British clothing brand “French Connection, UK®.”)

Silly.

The Coming Recession, Explained Using Six and a Half Bikinis.

“Well, just find yourself a man with a spotless genetic makeup and a really high tolerance for being second guessed and start pumping out the little uber Scullys.” – The X-Files

FIRST

After the next recession, most people will be on their feet in no time, after the bank repossesses the cars.

This wasn’t my originally planned topic. My originally planned topic was a discussion of PEZ® seed pricing mechanisms in 1850’s Great Britain, complete with discussion on how many orphans could be traded per bushel of finished PEZ™. Alas, I’ll have to return to that exciting topic some other time, since the world financial system seems to be imploding.

Okay, imploding isn’t the right word. And it really may not be as bad as it looks.

But today? It looks bad. Maybe not implosion bad, but I heard that some bankers had been discouraged. I guess they lost interest.

How bad could it be?

If it just stays at a financial level, the worst I would expect would be a W.I.L.D.E.R.™ Level 4 (Great Depression) in the United States, though it might hit a W.I.L.D.E.R.™ Level 5 (National Collapse) in China. You can read all about the W.I.L.D.E.R.™ Levels here (The Lighter Side of the Apocalypse) in an article praised by critics as “one of the best things ever written by a man with such questionable levels of personal hygiene, fashion sense, and grooming.”

In order to understand and guess at the future, let’s take a look at the past. The most recent past economic downturn was the Great Recession. What happened then?

sp500

As you can see from this chart, the S&P 500 experienced a big downturn right around the calf and knee area. Feel free to enlarge – just explain that the study of economics is really interesting.

Several things: first, lowered interest rates and the idea that anyone could and should get a mortgage led to a massive mis-investment in housing. Part of the cause were things called stealing and looting mortgage-backed securities and collateralized debt obligations. I won’t go into technical details, but it was a way that Harvard® educated MBAs convinced themselves that a strawberry picker making $14,000 a year could afford a $720,000 mortgage (LINK). And, yes, this really happened.

Second, the world was awash in money after the Fed flooded the fields with money after the Dotcom Bubble. Where did that money go? Everywhere. Houses. And . . . oil. Oil prices skyrocketed during that time. Companies rented oil tankers and kept them full, sitting at sea, continually selling futures on the oil in the tanker. They made fortunes by pretending to sell oil. I know that sounds like I’m making an obscure joke, but no, that really happened.

The price of housing hit the financial system like a mousetrap on a cat’s tail. Or a cat with a mousetrap on its tail? Or . . . nevermind. People kept borrowing more on their houses as their houses appreciated. They spent that money on pickups and boats and child care and food and vacations. The people weren’t evil, but they thought that the value of their house could never go down, so the risk was small. Rational people, like bankers, were telling them this. Heck, some even invested in more houses so they could double or triple their magic ATM.

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This view of 30 year mortgage rates explains that there have been mortgage rates. Look closely, and you can see them.

Finally, one day the music stopped on the housing prices. Was there a cause in particular? Not really. But the market lost the one thing required to keep it afloat – belief. Every market rises as the beliefs of the participants overcomes the worry of loss. Wow, that sounded poetic and cool. But it’s also true.

In many ways, the stock market is a barometer not only of the actual underlying economic performance, but how people feel about the future. It keeps going up as long as people keep being optimistic and has proven to be a much better barometer of economic activity than the amount of leg hair I grow before each winter and then form into a nice, soft nest to sleep in when it gets cold.

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Crude oil prices had Exxon® jumping for joy in 2008!

One thing that brought the mood of people down in 2008 was the price of oil. In the midst of the recession that came from the housing bubble, the secondary oil bubble inflated. Prices increased more than double in a single year – from $70 per barrel to over $140 per barrel at the peak. Oil acts as a tax on everything to do with physical goods. To move a Tom Brady’s booty dinghy from where it’s made in by incontinent baboons in Romania to his rump mechanic in Massachusetts requires energy – energy from oil.

So that’s the “why” for 2008. How does that relate to today?

The Great Recession was brought about by an actual recession – things slowed down in the country because there were only so many houses that could be made. That’s different than today’s trouble. The stock market is tanking not because of a recession, but because the worry about Corona-Chan locking up the flow of physical goods from China. I wrote about that last week (Corona Virus, with a Slice of Recession?).

What have we seen so far?

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This was a pretty good miniseries documentary.

The stock market has decreased in value. In general, a stock price has two components – the first is the value of the factories and land and machinery that the company owns. This is boring, it’s like saying a Stradivarius violin worth less than a piece of firewood because the firewood weighs more – in the hands of a genius, the violin can make masterful music, though in the hands of my kids it just made me contemplate the positives of being deaf.

The second and often biggest component of value to a stock is the assumed growth of that stock. This is why older, boring stocks like Ford® are priced closer to the value of the assets they own – no one thinks that Ford™ will end up tripling in size in the next three years. There’s an ex-wife “tripling size in three years” joke, but I’m bigger than that.

But people do think that Tesla© can triple in size in three years. Therefore, people value Tesla™ more than Ford® even though it sells about six million cars a year and Tesla© sold only 370,000 cars in the last year. You’d think that Ford™ would be worth about 10 times what Tesla® is. But in reality, Ford© is valued at $28 billion, while Tesla™ is valued at $147 billion. Is Tesla™ really worth that much? That’s up to Tesla®. But give me $147 billion and I bet I could sell 380,000 cars a year, too. And they would be pretty neat ones and they wouldn’t look like they were designed by a third grader with limited imagination.

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Elon took a lot of heat for the Cyber Truck design, primarily because it looks like something that no human would buy. Thankfully, Elon’s next advance will be robotic customers.

Tesla© has convinced people it is almost six times more valuable than Ford©. That’s what I call optimism. Or a con, but at least a con for a good cause (Elon Musk: The Man Who Sold Mars).

Since the stock market is based on optimism, this latest decline in February of 2020 shows that investors are shaken. The world hasn’t (yet) changed but the implications are now becoming concerning enough to cause the market to drop. Is this going to be a big drop, like in 2008, or another head fake?

I can’t be sure. But I do know that this seems like a good time to trot out what I learned the last time the economy went south.

Lesson One:

Market bubbles aren’t rational. Companies rise faster and farther in a bubble without regard to, well, anything. Uber®, which is basically “Taxi App” is worth $61 billion dollars, which is more than Elon Musk spends in a typical year on hair plugs. Uber© lost $8.5 billion dollars last year while generating tons of bad publicity because its founder is a douche and it treats drivers worse than Mongolian bull milkers. There are tons of companies just like Uber™, and all with an idea that they’ll “disrupt” segments of society. Essentially, disrupting involves an app, a smart phone, and booting someone out of a job. Some are, I assume, legitimate ideas that will be profitable in the future. Others are like GoPro™, which is (in Karl Denninger’s words) just “camera on a stick.”

I heard someone call this the Disruption Bubble, and it’s as good a name as any to describe the distortions and irrational money flows as everyone tries to find the next Amazon™, Facebook© or Google®. In a real panic, stupidly valued things like Uber® deflate, and deflate quickly. But companies that are really worth something will fall in value, too.

The best time to buy a company is when it is cheap. It will never be cheaper than when people are panicking like Godzilla® is hungry for Japanese take-out and orders Tokyo. Finding quality companies that are selling at a 90% discount is possible during a real panic.

Lesson Two:

When the market falls, investors have less money. But they still have bills. So what will they do? If this is like 2008, they’ll sell other things. What kinds of things? Cool cars will be cheap, but not everyone is in the market for a Lambo. But gold dropped, too. During 2008, gold went from $1000 per ounce to as low as $720.

gold

You can see the price of gold really drop around the shoulder area, and take off afterwards.

I can’t guarantee that gold will drop, but I’d be watching if you want to buy some – there might be a great opportunity to buy gold at a lower price than the current $1655 per ounce.

Lesson Three:

In past recessions, the interest rate that is charged for the 10 Year T-Bill generally dropped. Why? People wanted to get to a safer asset. That asset has generally been the dollar. The most likely candidates to replace the dollar were the Chinese whatever-they-call-it and the Euro. As China is now in the grip of Corona, it’s not a flight to safety. Every European country with a beach is thinking about dumping the Euro and exiting the EU so they can print wrapping paper and call it money, the Euro isn’t a great one, either. The Swiss Franc is kinda awesome, but they only make so many of those.

10year

Look closely and you can see that the Fed doesn’t have a lot of room to lower rates.

Nope. It’s the dollar. In times of economic uncertainty, the dollar will increase in value relative to other currencies. Does it make sense? Maybe? It seems that the world notices the Navy, Army, Marines, and all of those nuclear weapons and those make the banks in New York seem a bit more secure.

Expect that if this goes like 2008 for a while you can buy foreign stuff like a king. For grins I track the New Zealand dollar – it’s right now at its lowest value in five years. I bet it goes even lower soon, so sheep should be quite a bargain. Remember New Zealand’s national motto: “We’re not Australia.”

Don’t expect to find a great place to get a good yield anytime soon if Uncle Sam is paying less than a 1%, you’re not going to get even that good of a deal. Negative interest rates have already hit Europe, and there’s no reason they won’t hit the rest of the world. Investing in cash in mason jars buried in the backyard might be a good idea. Send me your map, and I’ll keep it safe.

Lesson Four:

No financial collapse looks the same. Each one of them is unique, and this one has been a long time in coming so, if it’s hitting right now, it could be really bad. Each of the above lessons might be wrong, so look for opportunities where you see them, not where an Internet humorist thinks they might be, no matter how charming and freshly showered he might be. Oh, if you have cash, it does no good if it’s in a bank that collapses. Just sayin’.

A friend of mine made the joke in 2008 that “when the tide goes out, you see who isn’t wearing a swimsuit.” There are vulnerabilities that very few people know about right now that will (in hindsight) become obvious in the days or years ahead. Just nod sagely and pretend like you expected it would happen all along. That’s what I’ll be doing.

Wildcards:

Desperate people sometimes do desperate things. As the Soviet Union collapsed, there was some small risk that an official decided he was better dead than not red, and pushed the button. That didn’t happen – in large part because by the time the Soviet Union collapsed, nobody believed in it anymore: it was as tired as Joe Biden’s campaign.

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Okay, I’m sorry.

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If China were to teeter near collapse, would they decide to launch a regional war to keep the people together so the nation didn’t collapse or fall into civil war? Hopefully not, but the chances of it happening are greater than zero. As you prepare for a world where there is a financial dislocation, don’t forget to prepare for a cultural dislocation as well. Buying food now when it’s cheap and easy to get doesn’t make you a hoarder – it makes you one less person who is drawing on system resources if things go bad. Preparing for bad times when times are good is a profoundly moral thing to do. But don’t forget to complain like everyone else.

Nobody likes a smug prepper.

Disclaimer:

Keep in mind, this is NOT INVESTMENT ADVICE. I make fun of Johnny Depp and PEZ® and post pictures of girls in bikinis over economic graphs and am even writing this sober. Consult someone who has those credentials and maybe drinks martinis at lunch since that seems pretty swanky. Also, I don’t own any direct positions in any of the stocks discussed, and don’t plan on taking any positions in them (maybe ever), though I do own a Ford™ truck. I’m betting that maybe some of my 401k money is investing in, well, something and might include these stocks, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s just invested in magic beans?

Status, Money, and Bad Car Jokes

“Dude, where’s my car?” – Dude, Where’s My Car?

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I wonder if her Tiffany is twisted, too?

I recall reading a story about several wives at a kid’s soccer game in Dallas.  They were comparing cars – each of them had a new Mercedes® or similar luxury car.  One of the wives, exasperated, mentioned their really wealthy friend, Martha, who drove around in an older car.  “I wish I was as rich as Martha.  Then I wouldn’t have to drive a new car.”

It’s always fascinated me that there are people who feel that they have to spend money for appearances.  The Mrs. can vouch for that – it’s because of her vocal insistence that I spend money for deodorant, which I guess is like a Mercedes™, except Old Spice© is cheaper and costs much less to insure.

I know, I know, having to spend money to impress people is not a club I want to be in, but I find it interesting nevertheless.  After all, I’m in an even more exclusive club:  guys who want to be able to buy a pickup with a stick shift, a vinyl bench seat and rubber flooring instead of carpet.  As nearly as I can tell from the domestic pickup truck market, this particular club has one member.  Me.

The world seems to have gone into a mode that is based in luxury.  A few years ago, I visited a friend, Dave.  Dave had a new pickup truck.  As we drove around on a fairly warm day, I noticed that my butt was getting . . . cold.  That’s not something that normally happens to my butt by itself.  It turns out his pickup truck didn’t have just have heated seats, it had climate controlled seats that also got cold.

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I’m sure it has seats that cook you at 350°F or freeze you to -40°F.

I was amused – I didn’t even know that such a thing existed.  I hadn’t had my butt chilled for my pleasure before, except for that one time in Amsterdam.  Dave, however, didn’t buy the pickup because he was showing off or because he wanted specifically to chill my butt – he bought it because he wanted it.  And he probably paid cash.

Just kidding.  Dave probably wrote a check.

I wasn’t jealous of Dave’s truck.  It wasn’t something that I’d ever buy for myself.  My current daily driver is older than Pugsley, and has nearly 180,000 miles (3,500 kilograms) on it, and only 36,000 miles (45°C) on the latest oil change.  I’m wanting to keep it until it’s driven at least one light-second, which is 186,000 miles (63 meters).  Fingers crossed.  But I’m pretty sure I won’t get my car to the Moon – that’s 226,000 miles (5 liters), and I’m nearly certain my fuel pump will die again before then, plus Allstate® won’t insure translunar travel, I mean, at least not with full coverage.

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I’m sorry.  I Apollo-gize.  And, yes, I know that Neil never had a sweet ride like this one.

I’m not against spending money, but I think you should spend money like Fuzzy Pink Niven (Hugo® winning author Larry Niven’s wife) spends calories:

Potato chips, candy, whipped cream, or a hot fudge sundae may involve you, your dietician, your wardrobe, and other factors. But FP’s Law implies: Don’t eat soggy potato chips, or cheap candy, or fake whipped cream, or an inferior hot fudge sundae.

I think that advice on calories applies to many areas of life.  I have a budget of money.  There are things I have to buy, and have to spend it on – The Mrs. gets rather cranky if I don’t feed her.  Beyond those necessities, with any left over, I have a choice as to what I spend it on, and when I spend it.  Where Dave chooses to spend his on a really cool pickup truck, and a collection of pinball machines, my choices are different.

But those choices are mine, just like Dave’s choices are his.

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My ideal truck, complete with DIY garage!

Money represents potential.  It is the potential to create, the potential to build, the potential to serve.   In many ways, it represents the potential for future choices.

Time represents the potential for future choices as well.  We choose how to spend our money as if it is limited, but we choose to spend our time as if it’s unlimited?  Money comes and goes, but my budget of time is my life, measured in minutes and seconds.  Spending my time is nothing less than spending my life.  Just like a pickup seat determines how warm or cold our butts are, how we spend our time (and who we spend our time with) determines who we are.

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Is it just me or does this picture of Beto O’Rourke look just a bit off?

Knowing this, go and make your choices today.

Because my butt is warm.  (That’s supposed to be motivational.)

Addictions – You Have Them. Now Laugh At Them.

“His breakfast will taste better than any meal you and I have ever tasted.” – Fight Club

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Every day is the wrong day to give up Wilder.

It was the first day of third grade.  I was new to the class, and was nervous.  As I walked through the rows of desks, I felt very shy, apprehensive.  One third grader approached me.  He pointed at a girl sitting in the desk next to his.

“That’s my girlfriend.”

So many emotions.  There was a fierce determination, an aggression in his eyes.  I felt threatened, and I’ll admit, I panicked.  I balled up my fist and hit him.

The rest was a whirlwind.  I can’t remember anything after that until I looked at the face of the school nurse, who stared back at me with a shocked expression on her face.

“What did you do?  His jaw is broken!”

I guess I’ll never teach at that school again.

Okay.  That never happened, except on 4chan.

But I was involved with an elite paramilitary organization mentioned in Red Dawn where we went camping on a regular basis.  One rule of the Troop was that no cell phones went on the trip – in a tent full of boys there is NOTHING GOOD that happens with a cell phone on a campout.  So we left them home.

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Pictured working on their merit badge in Escape and Evasion.

Little kids didn’t care.  But eighth graders?  Cell phones had become a part of their lives.  I saw one particular scout become despondent for a whole campout, all from missing the connections he normally got from his phone.

He was addicted to it.  After a day, he was better.  But he was also very happy to get back to his phone.

There are many things in life that we can become addicted to.  There are the obvious ones that everyone thinks about when they use the term:  Alcohol.  Drugs.  Gambling.  Tobacco.  PEZ®.

The prime addiction from the Boy Scout’s phone was social media.  Much has been written about social media and its addictive effects.  All of social media is designed to be addictive and features are tested on a regular basis to make sure that it engages us, that it maximizes user interaction.  That maximizing user action breeds addiction.  But how it is addictive isn’t the point – the fact that it is as addictive as Mel Gibson movies is.

So, what do I mean by addiction?  Everyone thinks of a junkie shooting marijuana in his eye, but that’s overly simplistic, not to mention probably not what junkies do.  By addiction, I have a broader definition:  the psychological need for a substance of set of conditions that aren’t required for life.

You’re not really addicted to oxygen.  It’s required.  The Mrs. is a type one diabetic, which means that without insulin injections, she will die.  I used to kid with her, “Honey, when are you gonna realize it’s a problem?  You’ve got to kick that stuff.  Just say no.”

While I thought it was clever, The Mrs. was less than amused.  So I punched her and broke her jaw.

Again, I kid – The Mrs. has reflexes like a cat.  She also has a deceptively low center of gravity – very hard to push over.  But are there things that are beyond what we normally think about when we think about addiction?

Certainly.

How about . . . air conditioning.  I lived in Houston, and it was easily the most awful climatological experience in my life.  It was heat plus humidity – and when the wind hit you, it felt like the devil was breathing on me.  Plus I wilt like lettuce in the heat.

Having moved to Houston from Alaska, we paid roughly $422,721 a month in bills for electricity to cool our house.  Was it required?  Well, probably not.  People live, have lived, and do live in places much hotter than Houston without air conditioning.  I have no idea what kind of people, but people.

Dare I say it?  We were addicted to air conditioning.  We could have kept the house far hotter, and saved roughly the total cost of an aircraft carrier plus escort vessels during the two years we were there, but not enough to also get the extended warranty, which is really overrated with aircraft carriers.

Likewise, when we moved to Fairbanks, Alaska, we kept the house about 55-60°F (239°C) in winter when we moved there.  Since Alaskans build without regards to things like, oh, building codes, our home inspection found substantial work that needed to be done to prevent our garage from collapsing.  Really.  The seller had a local contractor doing the work after we had moved in.

“Where you folks from?”

We told him.

“No wonder you keep the house so hot.”  Yes.  He considered 55-60°F hot.

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Including the hat.  Our contractor looked exactly like Red Green.  I learned later that Fairbanks hosted a summer event called the Red Green River Regatta, sadly now discontinued.

So, in his eyes, we were addicted to hot homes.

But let’s swap to food:

What today is considered the bare minimum level for life today is, in reality, a greater degree of luxury than we’ve seen in nearly the entire history of mankind for a greater number of people.  Ever.  Are there crappy places to live?  Yes.  But the scene of the “refugee” in Tijuana saying that the beans and tortillas given to her by local people trying to provide help to her was “food for pigs” and that she might starve to death.

Given her size, that might take, oh, a decade or so.  The bad news is that she’s been deported from the United States and is, “very thankful to be back in Honduras.”  It’s sad – we really need more people who will assault other people with deadly weapons like Frijoles Lady did.  She’ll do the attempted murders Americans won’t.

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I guess she’s a lot like that alien, E.T.  She finally went home.

But the fact remains – we have people going across international borders because of . . . comfort.

What was it like in the past?

I did some research for a post once, and tried to figure out what medieval French peasants (called villeins, which translates from metric French to “Dave”) did in the wintertime in the year 1315.  The links that I was able to find described them as living in their mom’s basement eating pizza rolls and playing Red Dead Redemption 2 on Playstation®.  Just kidding!  The winter as a time of great poverty, and the families would essentially huddle under blankets in bed most of the winter to reduce food consumption, conserve warmth, and not die.

When you view today’s world through medieval eyes, nearly every person in the world has better winters than that, at least outside of the Democratic People’s Republics of Korea and California.  The example of the French also shows that we’re addicted to eating regularly.

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Fasting was easy in the U.S.S.R.  Comrade Stalin was concerned about your health.

No.  You don’t need breakfast.  You don’t really need lunch.  The fact is, unless they have an unusual medical condition, lots of people voluntarily go for days without food with zero negative health consequences outside of a slightly looser waistband.  And the desire to tell everyone about it.

Are people who are fasting hungry?  Absolutely.  Is there a payoff?  Yes.  From personal experience, the first food you eat after four days without eating anything will be the best burger you had all year.

But the bigger point is this:  we live in a world of unparalleled luxury.

  • In the United States, we have the distinction of having our poorest people having access to so many calories that there seems to be a correlation (in some studies) that shows that poorer people are fatter. Whereas those French peasants had all the time in the world, and none of the food, poor in the United States have all of the time, and all of the food.  And Playstations®.
  • Virtually no one freezes to death, or dies from the heat. In fact, Pugsley sometimes walks around in workout shorts and a t-shirt (no socks!) and complain that the house is too cold.  He does this in winter and summer.  We keep our house ludicrously cold, like our hearts.
  • Most movies made in the last 40 years are available to you after a quick Internet search and a nominal fee. Nearly every book, ever (that we still have copies of), can be had instantly electronically.  Those in paper?  Might take two days.  I have a lot of books, and they’re everywhere around the house.  I guess you could say I have no shelf control.

I won’t say these things are dangerous luxuries.  But they are luxuries, luxuries that we often take for granted.  How long has it been since your power has been out?  How long since you huddled in a cold tent on a freezing winter’s night or sweating on a hot day with an endless noon Sun?

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But it’s okay, his butler will go get it.

How long since you went a single day without food?  How long since you went two days without it?

Our ancestors did all of these things, and more.  They called it “Tuesday.”  Well, not “Tuesday” since their language was a series of unintelligible grunts that sounded like tubas played by jabbering twits.

When we become addicted to and accustomed to luxury, it weakens us.  Constant luxury may weaken us physically, but addiction to it weakens us mentally.  Mental weakness screams that when we’re in a cold or dark house that it’s intolerable, even if it’s only mildly uncomfortable.

When we can meet adversity and understand that what won’t kill us, that being away from the Twitter®, Instagram™, and Facebook© might actually be good for us, and that sweating all day in a hot house without air conditioning is just tolerable discomfort?

Then we win.

A Texas Church, Aesop, and the Future of Freedom

“I’m the plumber.  I’m just hanging around in case something goes wrong with her pipes.  (to audience) That’s the first time I’ve used that joke in twenty years.” – Horsefeathers

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“Why a four-year-old child could understand this report.  Run out and find me a four-year-old child.  I can’t make head or tail out of it.”

In a Texas church this weekend, the worst nightmare of the Left happened.  The only thing that could have been worse for the Left would have been a video of Bernie Sanders spending his own money.  A good guy with a gun (Jack Wilson) stopped a bad guy with a gun.  Part of what made it bad for the Left:  clear video evidence showed a good guy taking down a bad guy with a single shot.  To make it even worse for the Left:  the bad guy was a killer, shooting a pair of grandfatherly looking men in a room filled with grandma and grandpa types.

It was quick.  From the time the bad guy pulled his gun to the time the bad guy ceasing to . . . be was five seconds.  Five short seconds.  This was, perhaps, a final blow for the Left.  The idea that the police, who arrived very quickly (four minutes or less) should be the only ones with guns evaporated, especially since two church members were dead within three seconds.  A very well-trained citizen saved lives – how many we’ll thankfully not know, since he acted.

Not a cop.  A citizen.

Every Leftist commenter on the web that was trying to justify gun control in the wake of this tragedy couldn’t do so without defending the shooter as being somehow justified in wanting to rob the church.  The biggest problem in the eyes of the Left, perhaps, is that the churchgoers weren’t sufficiently Christian enough to quietly line up to be shot.  Texas is probably not the state for that.

What made the difference is that the good guy was able to ignore disbelief at the situation occurring right in front of him, and was able to react.  How could Jack Wilson do this?  He didn’t know exactly what threat he was going to face.  He didn’t even know if there ever was even going to be a threat.  But yet, he trained.  Dare I say it?  He was prepped.

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Ok, Zoomer.  (For the record, I’m neither.  I just like stirring things up.)

Jack Wilson scanned the churchgoers.  He was looking for data points.  He saw them and acted.

This week, Aesop over at The Raconteur Report posted his 2019 Quincy Adams Wagstaff Lecture.  It’s here (LINK).  RTWT.  As usual, Aesop writes excellent material – not only to ponder upon, but to act upon.  There are many wonderful points in it, and here is the opening:

Wherever you’re reading this, you’ve had unmistakable evidence that things aren’t going to go all rosy.  Perhaps ever again.  Perhaps just for a long dark winter of the soul, and/or of the entire civilization. There has been more than one Dark Age period in human history, and they will happen again.  You may very well get to see this firsthand, and experience life amidst it.  Howsoever long or briefly.

You’ve had a respite of some 37 months to get your metaphysical crap together in one bag, and use the time prudently.

If you’ve squandered that lead time, woe unto you.

This post made me think, which is dangerous.  At least that’s what my therapist says.  My therapist who says I’m “mentally creative” and “reality impaired.”  Thankfully, she’s imaginary, which really lowers her billing rate.  But what that post made me think most about was:

Mindset.

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This is what would happen if my imaginary therapist talked to The Mrs.  It’s funnier if you read the whole thing in a pirate voice, really.

Aesop mentions mental readiness, and that’s key.  The last 37 months have been, to put it mildly, an indication that we are headed towards a very uncertain future as the culture around us continues to polarize, as the monetary debt we face (all over the world) continues to mount, as soccer is still taken seriously as an international sport rather than a game for attention challenged three-year-olds, and as the international stability that was so hard won with the fall of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War dissolves.

I’m not trying to sell you on any one future, on any one fate, unless there’s money in it.  But I am trying to emphasize the start of your salvation:  your mindset.  If you believe that the world will continue in an unbroken, linear stream, I can assure you that you’re wrong.  We’ve had the precursor warnings of 9/11 and the Great Recession.  If I am correct, this decade will bring tumult of a similar, if not greater magnitude.

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Evacuate the women and children first!  Then we can solve this in silence.

You should believe this, too.  Not on a surface level.  This is a mindset.  Your daily decisions should take these future unknown and unknowable calamities into account.  Why?

Because if I’m right, and you’re prepared a week, a month, or five years before you need to be, you win.  Also?  Society wins, because the more people that are prepared, the better we come through the next crisis/shock.  If we were all prepared, a hurricane could hit the shore and the stores would still be full.  When we prepare, we manage to make sure there will be less stress on the system during an emergency.

The other way to help is with skills, and the longer the crisis, the more important those skills will be.  And, no, your experience in saving the Princess® in Super Mario Brothers™ doesn’t count.  At least my therapist says it won’t.  Real skills provide for a basic human need, like food.  During the Great Depression, people gardened and farms weren’t big factory affairs – they were much smaller Mom and Pop style farms.  Even though there was significant malnutrition, starvation deaths in the United States were minimal.

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He said his New Year’s resolution was 1920×1080.

More evidence?

One of the biggest enemies of seeing reality is seeing the world you think should be, not the world as it really is.  People look at Antifa® rioting and think, “They should be arrested.”  They aren’t.  What does that data point tell you?

The government of Virginia is threatening to take semi-automatic guns, dedicate a team to confiscating guns and the government should allow honest, law abiding citizens to exercise the right to self-protection.  But the government wants to take it away and make honest people felons.  What does that data point tell you?

Government debt today is at 106% of GDP.  During the worst of the Great Depression, debt was less than 50% of the GDP.  During the height of the Vietnam War?  Debt was less than 40%.  What does that data point tell you?

I can’t promise the cause of the next crisis.  But I can promise that it’s coming.  Cultivate the mindset.  It’s the first step.

The key is to avoid despair even though you see the world as it really is.

“I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today.  I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet.  I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it.” – Marcus Aurelius Groucho Marx

I have been accused of being too cheerful from time to time throughout my life.  And I plead guilty – with a smile on my face.  Why?

First – I’m naturally an optimist.  I want to achieve the best, but I also know that there’s no fixed way the world should be.  There is just the way that the world really is today.  If I don’t let myself get upset at the difference between an ideal and reality, I sleep a lot better.  Does that mean I’m satisfied?  No.  I work with every fiber to change some things for the better, but I don’t let it wreck my life like a pink-hatted blue-haired creature of fluid gender when confronted with a person who had to ask what their gender pronouns are.

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The first two hours are rough.  Caffeine is my best morning friend.

Second – Life has been awesome for me.  I can think of a LOT of times that I thought it was ruined.  But each of those times resulted in a situation that was pretty good for me.  Am I worth $30 million dollars?  No.  But that’s probably for the better.  If I had that kind of scratch I’d probably make Elon Musk look like the model of public restraint.

Third – I’ll admit, there was a time (about a year ago) where I got a little gloomy myself. But as I looked around me, I looked at what we have done.  I realized that freedom has won here in the United States for hundreds of years against all odds.

There were 2.5 million people living in the 13 colonies in 1776.  That’s less than the population of Utah.  In that 2.5 million we had a Washington, a Franklin, a Jefferson.  Sure, Franklin in 1789 might have drank more than the state of Utah in 1989 all by himself, but there are men that are the equal to our founders, and they exist in every state.  You know they exist, too.  The tricorn hats and powdered wigs are a dead giveaway.

Always remember that there is a line.  If you look at them standing along the church pews, scanning the congregation to keep them safe, they look nice.

Heck, they are nice.  Until they cross the line.

Then they’re not nice.  Then they become good men.

So, to gently change Groucho:  The past we wish to cling to is dead.  The present that we have is generally not so bad.  And we have a future, even if we can only see it dimly now, even if its golden age is years or decades away.

Let us go and make it.

I predict: these are the funniest predictions for 2020 you will read in 2020.

“Predictions are hard.  Especially about the future.” – Yogi Berra

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Okay, some people do pretty good predictions.

Once upon a time I tried to do real predictions.  The big downside of real predictions is being wrong sometimes.  I’d much rather be wrong all of the time, like last year (Silly Predictions for 2019. Bonus? Golden Bikini Force.), so here are my stunningly incorrect predictions for 2020:

January

  • The Senate takes over the impeachment trial of Donald J. Trump. Because of poor ticket sales, the trial is cancelled, but people who had reserved tickets were given a 20% off voucher for the Nirvana® reunion tour.  I’d love to bum a ride with you guys – I’d call shotgun, but Kurt beat me to it.
  • Joe Biden suspends his presidential campaign for Black History Month© so small black children across the nation can have the opportunity to pet his wet leg hair. When informed that Black History Month is in February, Biden suggests to the reporter that they bare knuckle box, because he’s “tired of your stupid malarkey, 23 skidoo, Tippecanoe and Tyler too!  Cockroaches!”  Biden calms down later after getting some tapioca pudding and watching Price is Right®.
  • Hillary Clinton asks the question, “Do you want to play a game?”

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Chelsea calls Chardonnay “Mommy’s Monica Juice.”

February

  • Ruth Bader Ginsburg sees her shadow on Supreme Court day, assuring us of six more weeks of Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
  • Tom Brady’s body reconfigures itself into a new form on national television during Super Bowl® LIV. His new body appears like a low slung muscular tank, and Brady “throws” passes by expelling the football explosively downfield from a brand new fleshy orifice designed by Bill Belichick, based on the anatomy of a platypus.  Sadly, this doesn’t help the Patriots© at all, since they were eliminated earlier in the playoffs and are not even playing in the Super Bowl™.
  • The New Hampshire Democratic primary is won by Kim Jong Un. Unfortunately, it was actually Hillary Clinton being mistaken for Kim Jong Un after her next round of plastic surgery.  Rumor is she was secretly pleased to be called Dear Leader instead of the usual nautical term, “Seaward.”
  • Brexit happens on schedule, but Boris Johnson’s hair stages its own Borexit and joins the Labour Party.

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I guess technically we’re all undead, but Ruth takes it to the next level.

March

  • Super Tuesday, a collection of 13 primaries is held on March 3rd. The top three Democratic finishers are Johnny Depp, Harvey Weinstein, and a resurgent O.J. Simpson.  Nancy Pelosi states, “We are so proud to have our Democratic values and inclusivity on display in these results.”
  • Patrick’s Day replaced by a new gender and religion inclusive holiday: “Buy Expensive Green Things and Drink if You’re Not a Muslim Day.”
  • Joe Biden again suspends his presidential campaign, noting that he needs to focus on saving lives by using his true talent – being able to detect diseases in women by holding their shoulders and sniffing their hair while standing behind them.

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“Don’t thank me . . . now.  Thank me later.  Want to play with my leg hair?”

April

  • Ralph Northam, governor of Virginia, is discovered eating living children on the front lawn of the governor’s mansion while in blackface. After calls for his resignation, he noted that it was, at most, a “youthful indiscretion.”
  • Ruth Bader Ginsberg develops a desire for human flesh much like Tom Cruise or Keanu Reeves, and soon appears to be no older than about 30.
  • A vortex connecting our dimension to another dimension containing hellish beasts is accidently opened by Pentagon scientists. This is almost exactly like the plot to the Stephen King novella The Mist, though not in a legally actionable way, at least according to my lawyer, Lazlo.

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“How could I make this worse?  Oh, yeah, I’ll go after the guns.”

May

  • Beto O’Rourke, while no longer a presidential candidate, decides to create an anti-gun organization, PistolsMakeScared (PMS®). He noted, “I really needed something to do while my wife has quality time with her boyfriends.”
  • France declares war on Canada on Tuesday morning. France surrenders to Germany later that afternoon, declaring Paris an open city.  The Germans refuse the surrender, indicating they can’t determine the number of troops required to defend France, since that’s never been tried before.
  • Australians will discover a spider that is the size of a cat, is as fast as a mongoose, has a diet of eagles and crocodiles, and is as poisonous as a middle school girl’s Instagram®. They name it “Dave.”

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Pictured:  Australian infant’s crib mobile.

June

  • LGBT Pride Month (June) officially replaced with LGBT Smug Condescension Months (June, July, August).
  • Elon Musk unveils a Kleenex® dispenser that automatically pops up a new Kleenex© every time you take one out at a base price of only $45,000. 25,000 people place a deposit, even though there’s a two year wait.
  • Chick-Fil-A® decides to start serving food on Sunday, adding hamburgers to their menu, and encouraging the worship of Satan as part of a new marketing campaign. “We’ve got to change with the times,” said their new spokesman, Lena Dunham.

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I mean if you have to choose between values and a tasty sandwich . . .

July

  • The Democratic Convention is moved from Milwaukee, Wisconsin to Malmo, Sweden as the Democratic Committee considers it unfair that people outside the United States have been denied a vote. Greta Thunberg, noted school dropout, is nominated.  Her vice presidential nominee, Joe Biden, is quoted as saying, “I’m thrilled to be behind her.”
  • The Republican Convention is held in a hollowed out volcano somewhere in the South Pacific. Donald Trump is nominated as the presidential candidate, and in a surprise move, he is also nominated to be vice president.  “Job’s too easy.  And I need someone whose I can trust to be vice president.”  Trump also adopts a pure white Persian cat with a diamond collar.
  • The 2020 Summer Olympics® open in Tokyo. Bingo is not an approved Olympic sport, primarily because the Japanese are still a bit superstitious about “B-29.”

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We now know what Paul Tibbets would do for a Klondike Bar®.

August

  • Google® is found to be censoring ______, ______ and _____, and working with Facebook™ and Twitter© to also censor _____. It is feared that the election might be impacted because ____ ____ ____, ____ and ____.
  • Elon Musk unveils an electric reusable coffee mug – he calls it Teasla©. Initial claims are that it is autonomous and can be used for both hot and cold liquids.  It also requires the new Teasla™ Supercharger, which can recharge it in 70 minutes using a 50’ by 50’ solar power array costing only $25,000.  The mug weighs 43 pounds.

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(Pssst – it’s in the trunk.)

September

  • For the second straight year, September is again cancelled by general consensus.

October

  • Two televised presidential debates and one televised arm wrestling contest are held. The planned presidential MMA bout is cancelled when Greta Thunberg tests positive for high levels of testosterone.  She is furious, “How dare you assume my gender?  You have ruined my fight plan.”  She then proceeds to spend all of her campaign funds on a live commercial showing her eating seven pounds of mashed potatoes (no gravy) in one sitting while scowling at the camera.
  • Gormongous, Ruler of the Dark Empire, emerges as a dark horse third party candidate after having emerged from the Pentagon’s dimensional experiment earlier in the year. “Everyone can be an American,” he hissed through clouds of sulfurous vapor.  The Ninth Circuit Court ruled that his alternate universe was “technically America” so he was a valid candidate for president, despite him being seven stories tall and covered in an exoskeleton made of material from neutron stars.

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Never take potatoes from a testosterone-raging Swede with fetal alcohol syndrome.  It’s a rule I live by.

November

  • The 2020 presidential election is held on the third. California immediately protests because the Electoral College now has fraternities, and no one asked California to join one so she could go to that cool Kappa Sig kegger and maybe hook up with Montana.
  • Donald Trump wins both the popular vote and the Electoral College. Democratic candidate Greta Thunberg says, “That is not enough – it makes a mockery of our democracy.  You must also defeat me in a best-of-seven game of Jarts®.”
  • Joe Biden celebrates his 78th birthday.  His hair and teeth turn 22.

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Many a G.I. Joe® experienced a fatal chest wound to Jarts™.

December

  • Santa Claus is now required by the 9Th Circuit Court of Appeals to be race, gender, and species neutral when used in any public school setting. Ironically, this has the effect of making most kindergarten pictures of NuSanta™ highly accurate.
  • Gormongous, Ruler of the Dark Empire, decides that he will use the fame from his presidential run to launch a top tier tequila as well as a chain of animal shelter/fast Asian restaurants in the Midwest.
  • Ruth Bader Ginsberg looks down on the lights of the city at night from her perch at the top of the Washington Monument. She smells, senses, and sees the life below her.  The life that she drains, person by person, to prolong hers.  Then . . . a target.  She aims her bat-like wings to take her quickly down the side of the monument, and then to strike.  Ahhh, fresh blood.  Ruth feels the gravity drawing her down as she leaps . . . .
  • National Park Ranger Report, 12/22/20: Bat killed by hawk near Washington Monument.

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To all:  Happy New Year!

Christmas 2019 – Complete With Asian Stereo Type

“Merry Christmas, Argyle.” – Die Hard

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So, true story – Pugsley came home from school, handed me this painting.  “What do you think?”  My response:  “Looks like Frosty is coming to kill me.”  Pugsley:  “Yup, that’s it.”  That’s my boy!

STATELY WILDER MANOR, Christmas Eve, 2019

Yesterday was a quiet Christmas Eve.  About the time I was ten years old, my brother (also named John Wilder*) and I got the ultimate concession a kid could get:  we convinced Ma and Pa Wilder that we should open our presents not on Christmas morning, but instead on Christmas Eve.  At a certain point, this becomes an easy sell.  Get up at 5:30 AM and groggily watch children ripping wrapping paper through the gauze of pain and regret of a Christmas Eve hangover, or have a nice, calm Christmas morning that involves sleeping somewhere beyond dawn?

Yeah, that’s easier than selling life insurance to people connected to Hillary Clinton.

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After leaving the Department of State, Hillary Clinton’s Secret Service code name was “Video.”  Since he was connected to so many high ranking political figures, Jeff Epstein’s code name was “Radio Star.”

Since I’m not a hypocrite, we Wilder’s have done the same on my watch as soon as my kids figure out that Santa Claus and functional socialism aren’t real.  It makes sense.  Christmas has a charm that, like an open jar of mayonnaise left on the counter for a week, evolves.  As you age, the very essence of Christmas changes.

It’s easy to surprise and delight a five-year-old at Christmas.  When they open a present they didn’t even know existed, getting to amazement is easy.  Walkie-talkies in 2019?  What sort of sorcery is this?  I have seen a five year old that regularly uses an iPad® that can access thousands of movies look amazed when confronted with a simple walkie-talkie.  When young, Christmas was a wonder – it was like the rules were suspended for a day.  Ma Wilder even let me out of the cage under the stairs.

But when you have older children, say, teenagers, they have a list.  A long list.  And they know your limits – they know exactly how much you’re going to spend on them at Christmas and they pick their presents to maximize cash consumption.  This year The Boy asked for video game thing.  Since he claims he got a 4.0 at Big State U, we indulged him.  What Pugsley asked for was surprising to me:  he wanted a record player turntable and a stereo amplifier.

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Pugsley’s amplifier was on sale – it was missing a volume knob – I couldn’t turn it down.

When I was near Pugsley’s age, this was exactly the gift I wanted.  I bought him the stereo and turntable he was looking for – honestly, in this day and age I was surprised they even made either of those devices anymore except in backwards stone-age places like Cairo, Calcutta, or Chicago.  Between cell phones and computers being able to instantly access tens of millions of songs and then flawlessly play an endless string of them, why would someone want to own a device that plays a maximum of 22 minutes before you physically have to get up to flip the record over?  Hell, I’m so lazy that if I won an award for being lazy I’d have The Mrs. go pick it up for me.

But Pugsley was certain that was what he wanted.

Pugsley opened up the box with the turntable and then I realized he had no idea what he was doing – no idea at all.  I’m pretty sure he’d never even seen a record played before in real life.  Nevertheless, he set it up the turntable.  Then he pulled out an old album – Queen’s A Night At The Opera.  I hadn’t seen this album in years, not since it had been packed up before Pugsley was born when The Mrs., The Boy and I moved to Alaska.  The Mrs. never even looked in the box – she had asked me when we were dating if I had a police record.

“No, just one by Sting.”

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I’ll admit it wasn’t fair.  But he got even:  one time got me a Cisformer® for my birthday – it’s a car that starts out as a car and stays a car.

My brother had originally bought A Night At The Opera, and in a fit of religiosity had abandoned it along with several other records (Rolling Stones®, Thin Lizzy©, and Sweet™ come to mind) when he moved out to make his way in the big world.  Or maybe I stole them liberated them.  Little brothers do that, you know.  Regardless, I have a dozen or so albums that originated from him.  Or, to make that statement more accurate, Pugsley has the albums now.  As I reflect, I realize even the word “album” is as antiquated as Nancy Pelosi’s virginity.  Heck, it even predates her senility.

Regardless, I realized that Pugsley had no understanding of how to even hold a record.  I stopped him as he began to pull A Night At The Opera out of the sleeve.  After all, an original 1975 pressing of that album might cost all of $8.00, plus shipping and handling off of VinylDan69’s store on Ebay®.

“Stop!  Here, you hold it like this, by the edges.  And then,” putting my thumb on one edge while putting my fingers on the label to stabilize the album, “you slide it into the sleeve like this.  Don’t let it drop – it will cut through the paper sleeve.”  I then showed him how I put the album and sleeve back into the cover – with the opening to the sleeve pointed up so the album didn’t slide out.

I might have left my clothes on the floor, I might have used the same bath towel until it dried as stiff as concrete in the Hoover Dam, and my refrigerator might have resembled a biological weapon experiment prohibited by the Korean Armistice Agreement of 1953, but I always took care of my albums.  Nobody likes to hear “The boys are ba-The boys are ba-The boys are ba” for forty straight minutes.  No.  You want to hear that they’re back, and there’s gonna be trouble.  And you can forget about the old trick of taping two pennies to the tonearm, given inflation I’d have to put about $0.50 up there.

Pugsley caught on quickly, and put the record on the player.  He picked up the tonearm, and gently placed it on the record.  It started to slide immediately across the face of the record, quickly, towards the center.

“It’s skating!  Did you take the cover off of the needle?”  The answer, of course, was no.  Soon enough the needle cover was removed, and Pugsley had a fully functional stereo.

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I even hear that the band Europe has a new record out – The Vinyl Countdown.

He took the turntable and amplifier into his room and connected them to a set of Sony® speakers old enough that the rubber around the speaker cones had cracked and deteriorated to a fine black powder.  As I rubbed powder grains between my fingers, I thought that if the powder was hydrated it might reanimate into my ex-wife’s soul, and nobody wants that.

But those Sony® speakers were old:  I think they once belonged to Pa Wilder.  He gave them to me sometime after Sinatra passed on.  It’s at Christmas that I reflect on what kind of a father Frank Sinatra was – if you were bad, no ice in your drink.

I followed Pugsley back and watched as he put an old 45rpm single of mine on the turntable.  He gently set the tonearm down on the edge of the record.  It hissed and popped – a sound I hadn’t heard in decades.  Then this mighty classic of Western Civilization started playing:

Yes, that’s Eddie Murphy singing the “Norton” parts.

Pugsley looked at me, puzzled, as if waiting for some explanation for the audible abomination emanating from his Christmas present.  Yes, A Night At The Opera was my brother’s record.  But this fine Joe Piscopo song?  Yeah.  I spent actual cash money to buy it.  I checked to see if maybe this was the B-side.  Nope.  On either side was the same song:  The Honeymooner’s Rap.  I had spent money, intentionally, to buy this song.

I was at a loss.  How do you explain to a middle school kid that the song was a 34 year old parody of a television show that was cancelled 64 years ago?  And, a television show (The Honeymooners) that I’d only seen one episode of, ever?

Nah, too much backstory.  Plus I’m trying to get him to be wise with his money.  I shut up.

Pugsley:  “Dad . . . this song is so,” he paused, and I imagined him looking for an adjective that wouldn’t be offensive to me on Christmas Eve.  “90’s,” he concluded.

John Wilder:  “80’s.”

Pugsley:  “Whatever.”

I left him to discover music written by obscure musicians who had long since developed careers in real estate or the food service industry.  Oh, Steven Tyler, who now plays a lesbian aunt on the Big Bang Theory®.  I think.

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Well, at least Aerosmith® taught me how to cook Chinese food.  I can now wok this way.

Christmas 2020 is decidedly anti-frenetic.  Yes, Pugsley was attempting to get everyone into the room earlier in the day on Christmas Eve so we could open presents, but he was calm about it – not uncontrollably shaking like a Chihuahua on a chalupa.

The rule is that the youngest Wilder distribute the presents from under the tree.  Pugsley did so.  It’s also been the rule that the youngest Wilder gets to open presents first.  Not this year.  “Okay, Dad, you go first,” ordered Pugsley.

I did.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise when I opened a box filled with roasted coffee beans from Alaska that The Mrs. ordered from Alaska.  For whatever reason, my favorite coffee is still Musher’s Blend© from the North Pole Coffee Company™ in Fairbanks, Alaska (LINK).  I have two pounds, thanks to The Mrs.  I had, of course, known this before I asked The Boy to wrap the box.  Disclosure:  I get no money from them.  Just coffee.  And then just when I pay for it.  (Guys at North Pole Coffee:  I’m completely willing to take free coffee.  I have ethics, but, you know, this is coffee.)

So, no real surprises.

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They did a brain scan of her:  “Coffee.  Coffee.  Coffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffee.  Coffee.”

Christmas day will be calm, too.  We’ll have turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy.  I’m pretty sure that we don’t have any plans at all.  Not having little ones, we’ll get up when we get up, check the news, have some coffee, and turn the oven on to cook the turkey.  The Mrs. already made George Washington’s egg nog (Washington: Musk, Patton, and Jack Daniels all Rolled into . . . the ONE), so I don’t even have anything to complain about.

Where’s the Christmas wine?  I’m not getting up anytime soon.

Merry Christmas, one and all!

*Yes.  My brother and I have the same first name, for reals.  As we were born seven years apart, my parents had apparently forgotten they had another child when I arrived eleven years later, so I stole his name.  That’s okay.  I also managed to ruin several of his dates, end one of his relationships, wreck his car, and throw up on his school clothes one night.  So I guess that makes us even.

A.I., Health Care, Google, and Elon Musk

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go home and have a heart attack.” – Pulp Fiction

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I wanted to get a doctor appointment to treat my invisibility, but he said he couldn’t see me right now.

A computer can predict who will die using medical data better than a doctor.  As of today, like science has no answer as to how California copes with the landfill requirements of Kardashian body hair, science has no understanding of how the computer is doing it.

A gentleman by the name of Dr. Brian Formwalt led a study where approximately 1,770,000 electrocardiogram records were fed into a computer.  An electrocardiogram is also known as an ECG, for obvious reasons.  For less obvious reasons, it’s also known as an EKG.  EKG stands for elektrokardiographie, which is exactly the same thing as an electrocardiogram, but in German.  If your doctor calls it an EKG, he just might be thinking about expanding his living room.

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Always be careful when Germans research expanding anything.

But back to the study.  So, there were 1,770,000 records, but only 400,000 people in the study, so the average person had more than four records.  Obviously, these weren’t all healthy people, since I have had (I believe) exactly one ECG in my life, and it was for a pre-employment physical as an astronaut for Wal-Mart®.  At least the recruiter told me Wal-Mart© needed astronauts, before Wal-Mart™ cancelled the program when China accidentally delivered 50,000 small space shuttle toys rather than one life-size one.  I guess that’s what happens when you buy space shuttles by the pound.

But what is an ECG?

Electrocardiograms are the little machine light that makes the beep sound every time your heart beats.  The beat is measured by injecting elves into your body that send radio signals to the machine every time that your heart muscle squeezes them.  Okay, the technical side might be a bit off, but it doesn’t really matter if you or I know exactly how the machine gets the data.  It’s just the device that goes beep-beep-beep-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep to let you know that John Wick’s® dog died.

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Cardiac surgeons are the guys you want to see for a change of heart.

Okay, so now you know everything that you might need to know about technology invented in 1895.  But it now produces an electronic file rather than the old method, where the heart rhythm was tattooed on the backs of ill-tempered Chihuahuas.  The 1,770,000 records were then fed into a computer that had been previously taught to read ECGs.  The simple question was asked – which of these patients will be dead in a year?  I mean it used to make me feel better when my doctor told me, “that’s normal for your age,” but then I realized that at some point being dead will be normal for my age.

Since all of the records were over a year old, it was known which of the patients were alive and which were dead.  Essentially, the doctors were (with very little data) asking the computer to predict the future.  It did.  And it did it better than human doctors.  Some of the ECGs looked absolutely fine to human doctors – they detected no abnormality, yet the computer was able to see something that accurately allowed it to predict the death of the patient.

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Then the next doctor told me it looked like I was pregnant.  I said, “But I’m a guy.”  He replied, “But it looks like you’re pregnant.”

It doesn’t surprise me.  Computers are powerful tools that are great at taking lots of data and being able to compare it quickly.  The reason that they can do this is they:

  • Have 100% focus, and if they get a sore throat you can give them Robo-tussin®.
  • Don’t need to make payments on second wife’s Mercedes® and third wife’s Lexusâ„¢.
  • Can retain every previous ECG reading ever seen and instantly recall the pattern if needed, much like I can retain the plot of every one of the episodes of Gilligan’s Island.
  • Don’t get distracted by how healthy a patient looks or how much kale he eats.

These are great advantages.  In the future, machines will be able to do things where we may never understand how they made a correlation, or, as in this case, even what the correlation is.  Arthur C. Clarke Third Law states that “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”, and he’s right.  Health care generates amazing amounts of data, and also outcomes.  It’s only a matter of time until some big corporation gets evil . . .

Oh, yeah, Google®.  It bought Fitbit®.  Now it knows what you’re searching for, and it also has a treasure-trove of heartbeat and fitness data.

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Google® is female.  It won’t let me finish a sentence without giving suggestions.

Well, I guess that’s kind of scary.  But at least Google© doesn’t have access to medical records.  Oh, Google™ has patient names, diagnoses, prescription data, and records from 2,600 hospitals.  Millions, perhaps tens of millions of patients?  In (possibly) all of these states:  Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, New York, Rhode Island, Maryland, D.C., Illinois, Indiana, Kansas, Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Tennessee, Texas, Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, Georgia, and Florida?

Nah, that should work out fine.  There isn’t a record of Google® ruthlessly monetizing every corner of the Internet not already inhabited by Facebook™, Amazon® and Microsoft©.

I think the case is clear for someone to go through this data.  With only a few records and outcomes fed into it, a computer is better at predicting medical outcomes than a very good doctor.  If all of the data could be available?  I think we’d have a legitimate revolution in health care.

Frankly, if we don’t descend into civil chaos, I think that this health care revolution is certain.

But Google®?  Google™ has proven itself untrustworthy.

I’d suggest that we give control of the initiative to a leader that’s more trustworthy than Google®, like Bernie Madoff, but he seems to be otherwise, um, detained.  And I’m sure that Jeffery Epstein has better morals, but, um, he seems to have accepted a unique opportunity with the Clinton Foundation.

Heck, let’s give the job to Elon Musk.

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