Health – Wilder, Wealthy, and Wise

Companies Hate You

“Hello, can we have your liver?” – The Meaning of Life

On weekends sometimes I drink water, you know, to keep my liver guessing.

In 2018, a Goldman-Sachs© researcher asked the question: “Is curing patients a sustainable business model?” This was in relation to what should be considered great news, a company coming up with a one-shot cure for hepatitis C that was over 90% effective.

Where is the profit in making people better? As someone who depends on my precious liver to take abuse like a housewife in Egypt every Friday and Saturday night, I’m all in favor of things that keep them healthy. But it doesn’t make sense to Goldman™, because they’d much rather have me be an income stream forever than solve my problem.

This is an example of a world where the Libertarian ideals fall apart, precisely because they presume the lowest common denominator when it comes to morality in society. There are many flaws with Libertarianism, and this, along with optional personal bodily hygiene intervention are two big ones. I mean, it isn’t a violation of the non-aggression principle to request they replace the mustard-coated shirt, is it?

A friend of mine stole a lightbulb once. He said it was because he was in a really dark place.

Let’s look at other places where the free market falls apart. What about Tinder™? What happens if Tinder© brings together a guy and a girl and they fall in love and get married and stay married for the rest of their lives?

Tinder® loses two customers. Forever. It is not in the algorithm’s interest to make people happy. It’s in the algorithm’s interest to get two people to meet and not like each other. Wait, better yet, to like each other superficially enough that they hook up and then both feel hollow and empty inside, driving them to find someone a little closer to what they want.

Yes. That’s what Tinder© would like best in the whole world. Unhappy people swiping on their product, generating revenue. It’s sad, especially because a 9 or 10 guy will break down on a dry-spell Friday night and swipe on a 4 woman, bang her, and now she thinks that she’s worthy of a 9 or 10. So, she stays on Tinder™ waiting on Prince Chad to sweep her off her feet instead of out of her panties.

Tinder™ is profitable, though, so there’s that. Match Group©, which owns nine other dating apps, made about $3.5 billion in revenue. They didn’t make that much money because people got married and abandoned them. They get rich because of psychological manipulation and the destruction of fertility.

He was sad, he said she was matadorable.

Also in this group with Tinder©? Social media that feeds your outrage. I’ve written about quite a bit, and won’t retract a syllable. While we’re on software, Tinder© is freemium, but there’s worse. There’s SaaS.

SaaS SuckS.

What’s SaaS? “Software as a Service”. Remember the “you won’t own anything, and you’ll love it” soy-face guy with an expression of, “I hope my wife’s boyfriend likes this chai latte I made him”? Yeah, that’s where this fits in.

I bought Microsoft© Office™ a decade ago. I had to re-buy three years ago when I bought a new computer. Couldn’t find that pesky key. Yes, I know there are free alternatives, but it was worth it to me.

Anyway, I bought it for $149.99. It costs $99.99 a year. I’ve already made back almost $150.00. Well, $150.00 if you round up because pennies in 2026 are as common as black Cambridge© professors that can read. What Microsoft® really wants, though, is for me to be a customer forever, paying each month, like a little software child that shows up for its allowance and then runs off to the shareholder meeting.

How often do airplanes crash? Most of them, just once.

And, to do this, they’re willing to sacrifice and continually make the software worse with teams of Indians hired to, well, I guess be Indian and dispose of their trash in National Parks. How will they pay those H-1Bs in their eternal quest to make your software worse? With your monthly payments.

It’s not just Microsoft©, but many other software companies like Adobe® are out there, sniffing around your credit card.

But there was a time when at least some people realized they could get rich by being good. Crazy idea, that. An example?

Henry Ford famously raised the daily wages of his workers, doubling them while cutting the hours worked each day from 9 hours to 8 hours. To be fair, his desire wasn’t entirely due to altruism. He had to hire about 50,000 people a year to keep 14,000 making cars. In reality, doubling wages ended up lowering Ford’s© cost and doubling his profits.

There was a catch. To qualify for the full wage increase, you had to be a married man properly supporting your family, or a man over the age of 22 who could prove they were thrifty. Your wife couldn’t work. She had to stay home.

I accidently glued myself to my autobiography. It’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

What a monster! Ford wanted to make sure that his company produced quality American families based on quality American values. Of course, he got sued.

Today? It’s a race for the bottom wage by companies that don’t see the United States as their home, just a profit center or division. And, it has spread. Universities are now attempting to hire H-1B volleyball coaches making less than $50,000 a year. Why? Because no American understands volleyball?

No. Because they can get someone cheaper. The idea is that jobs in Missouri should have wages based on Mogadishu or Mumbai. Jobs in Nevada should compete with Nairobi or Nigerian wage levels. As pointed out in the last post, when men don’t get raises, women don’t make babies.

It’s a simple way to replace a people, but only after you’ve made them poor. Medicine should make people feel better, and a cured patient, is better than one on a perpetual prescription. Unless you’re Goldman-Sachs©.

I just found out I’m colorblind. Boy, that came out of the orange!

Them? They want my liver to stop working. Not entirely, just enough that I have to pay them every month to keep it going, while using crappy software, surrounded by unmarried Gen Zers who can’t get jobs because they’re not from Punjab.

Libertarianism might not be dead, but it’s dying since the only people foolish enough to buy it can’t afford the mortgage on their liver.

The Only Freedom They Can Never Take

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.” – Dune

Never forget Cole’s Law: “Shredded cabbage and carrot can make a decent salad.”

Frank Herbert wrote the opening quote for this post about a desert planet full of sand, giant worms, political backstabbing, and SpaceLSD®. He could have been describing a Tuesday on the Internet, or maybe even Elon’s plan to get SpaceX™ stop SpaceX®’s shares from crashing and carving a trillion-dollar crater into the S&P 500©.

But back to fear. Why is it used so often?

It’s because emotions are potent weapons, so they get weaponized.

Constantly.

Every advertisement, every mainstream media news segment, every political social media post is designed to make me feel something specific so I will do something specific.

When my dentist died, his family couldn’t find his tombstone. There was no plaque on it.

Outrage is easy to provoke, and it motivates. Fear moves product. Comfy feels gets votes. The people pushing the buttons understand this better than most philosophers ever did, I mean, have you ever read much about MK Ultra?

Do you really think they ever stopped, or are they using it now through SnapBook™ and InstaFace©?

The O.G. ancient stoic philosophers wanted to believe that reason was what they used to make decisions. Marcus Aurelius sat in his tent writing notes to himself about virtue while his son grew up into the Roman version of Hunter Biden. Using reason as a source of virtue is timeless, but it’s almost completely ignored by actual humans with nervous systems and SnapGram© accounts.

Humans feel first. Only then do we invent reasons.

Five guys with booze will start a fight. Five guys with weed will start a band.

That is really the order of operations. But it also implies that if I guard my feelings then I can guard my decisions. If I let someone else set the temperature while I’m driving and I have already handed them the steering wheel and they say, “Ha! Driver gets to choose what’s on the radio!” have I twisted the metaphor too far to include peanut butter and PEZ®?

Absurdity aside, if I hand someone the ability to control me with emotion, I cease to be anything but that MK Ultra automaton. Thankfully, I tend to run anti-trend anyway.

If the herd is charging one direction, my first move is to imagine that they’re headed toward a cliff at a full gallop. That habit has kept me out of more than one mistake, like investing my 401K in Beanie Babies©. But even I, John Wilder, still have a pulse and a set of instincts.

The difference, though, is whether I treat those instincts as orders or as suggestions.

My decisions are my choice.

Any one practicing for a staring contest should take a good, hard look in the mirror.

Yes, emotions matter. They can be fuel. But I still get to choose how I feel about an issue. In the end, that very well may be the only freedom that cannot be taken from me: I can only give it away.

They can take my money, my job, and MySpace© page. They can take my reputation. They can take the flags and the stories I grew up believing. They can flood every screen with the approved feeling of the week from that high-fructose corn syrup of actresses, Zendaya.

Why high-fructose corn syrup? No one likes it, and it’s in absolutely everything.

Regardless of Zendaya, what they cannot do is reach into my skull and flip the switch.

Unless I hand them the key.

I used to eat at Applebee’s®. Then I saved up enough cash to buy my own microwave?

I have watched people hand over that key in real time. They scroll until the algorithm has told them exactly how angry to be, what to be angry about, and how to soothe that anger.

They outsourced their emotions to the loudest voice in the room and call it being informed . . . “tRUsTinG tHe scIENcE”.

The alternative is to be deliberate.

I notice the emotion when it shows up. Turn it around in my skull, and name it while avoiding the drama.

Then, and only then, do I decide whether it points toward Truth, Beauty, and Goodness or whether it is just another current trying to pull me somewhere I never intended to go.

That pause is the whole game. In that pause I still own the tiller.

I can choose the things that flow from Truth, Beauty, and Goodness. I can choose honor and discipline instead of convenience and shortcuts. I can choose the hard path because, as the old proverb says, calm seas do not make good sailors. Smooth water teaches me almost nothing about flip flops, pop-tops, inexplicable tattoos, or using a mixer to blend iced alcoholic beverages. Oh, wait, that’s Jimmy Buffet talking about his rough time.

My bad. But the point of Margaritaville is that it shows how a life free from discipline leads to hard lessons in the end, anyway. I want storms. I want them early.

It’s rare that a defibrillator fails, but when it happens, no one is shocked.

Discipline looks boring from the outside. And I am boring. Honor looks stubborn. And I’m damned stubborn. Choosing not to feel what the crowd demands can look cold.

Fine.

I don’t control the storms. I do not control the media cycle, the markets, the next manufactured crisis, or the next fashionable cause.

I do control whether those things dictate my next move.

Everything else can be bargained, taxed, regulated, stolen, or canceled. The choice of how I feel about an issue stays mine until I surrender it.

So, I guard it.

I hear they have a new parking meteor at the International Space Station.

The sea will not stay calm, our lives are filled with storms. The only question is to whether I choose to hold the tiller, or if I’ve already given up for a free ride on the SpaceLSD© express.

At least they have Margaritas.

Patton, Kathleen Turner, and the Difference Between Passion and Enthusiasm

“Like yourself, I have a passion for antiquities.” – Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

The Mrs. had a sinus infection that suppressed her ability to detect odors. She got upset when I told people, “She doesn’t smell good.”

I’ve always disliked enthusiasm.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t been enthusiastic a time or two, usually after too much coffee or around the second beer. But, I always, always distrust the emotion.

An aside: I mean, is “emotion” even the right word for enthusiasm? It feels more like a mood with a marketing department.

Passion, though? That I feel. That I respect.

I simply could not write this blog three times a week, week after week, year after year, without passion. Passion is deep. It is to the core.

It is meaning.

I’ve got to take another aside, last for the post. Passion has a lot of definitions. In this case, I’m using “an object of deep interest”. Passion is one of those exceedingly strange words that has about seventeen definitions, some of them absolutely contradictory. So, it’s not passion in the sense of “1986 Kathleen Turner sweating in a nightie while giving you that look” or passion in the “he lost his reason and committed a crime of passion” it’s passion in the sense of “General Patton was passionate about mobile combined arms warfare.”

Back to the show. Tank you for your indulgence.

The Joan Wilder?

Enthusiasm? That’s just the surface. I tend to react negatively to enthusiasm and to those who try to make me feel it. It’s a game I don’t want to play, since it is only the cheap reflection of the richness of true passion, sort of like the way Americans actually felt about the Soccer World Cup®.

Likewise, when I look at joy, I realize it is a mercurial, ephemeral, surface mood. It lasts a second and then vanishes like the last slice of pizza in the fridge when Pugsley is home from Midwest U.

What is the deeper source people are trying to emulate with joy?

I think it’s satisfaction. Satisfaction doesn’t spike and crash. It settles in after the work is done, after the hard choice was made, and after I stuck with it long enough for the results to show up.

Joy is a firecracker. Satisfaction is a campfire that keeps my soul warm.

I like enthusiastic people like I like my tea. Under water, in a bag.

Once I started looking, similar pairs seem to show up everywhere.

Infatuation is the surface: heart racing, the sudden conviction that this person is the answer to every problem I’ve ever had. And yes, I’ve been infatuated a lot in my life, sometimes twice on Fridays.

Love, though, is the deep core. It shows up when the dirty clothes are on the bathroom floor, when problems hit, and when it’s something that transcends a mere moment.

Infatuation needs constant newness. Love needs character.

Likewise . . .

Excitement is a surface jolt I get from a new plan, a new gadget, or a diet that promises six-pack abs by Thursday. Resolve is what remains after the novelty wears off and the plan starts requiring actual effort at 5:30 a.m. On Monday. In January. Outside. In near-freezing mud. In Chicago.

My excitement is loud and is good at starting things. My resolve is quiet, plodding, and is always what actually finishes any important job I start.

I hear pirates often get their hooks at a second-hand store.

There are obviously lots of others:

Motivation vs. Discipline
Amusement vs. Insight
Thrill vs. Purpose
Involvement vs. Commitment
Attitude vs. Character

Surface feelings are fast, loud, and in today’s world, surface moods are easily manufactured. Deep sources are slow, quiet, and nearly impossible to fake because they’re substantial. They don’t happen in an instant. They are fabricated over the span of years, like when Michelangelo spent four decades on his back while sculpting Neil Armstrong’s face onto Mount Rushmore.

One is today’s weather. The other is winter, spring, summer, and fall.

Two of my friends got busted for stealing a calendar. They each got six months.

The modern world is engineered almost exclusively to exploit the surface. Website responses are calibrated in milliseconds, which actively kills the pause that deep feelings require. Twitter® used to time the way “likes” showed up in my notifications for a reason. Twitter© was algorithmically tuned to keep me glued to the app without giving me time to reflect and reach the deeper parts of my soul.

Almost all of the Internet today is built to feed the surface. Outrage is a trap that rarely means anything, but it does drive “engagement”. But it leaves people feeling strangely empty, because “engagement” was never meant to carry the weight and meaning of a life.

It is the foam on the beer or the paper wrap on the PEZ© candies.

I distrust enthusiasm because I have seen how quickly it evaporates and how easily it can be manufactured by people who want something from me. I trust passion because, even though I might not agree with the person or the passion, at least it’s honest. Passion doesn’t need the crowd’s applause because it is its own reward.

In a world that keeps trying to sell me the surface version at ever-increasing speed, choosing the deeper one is almost a rebellious act. It is also the only version that has any meaning.

Probably because Patton never met Kathleen Turner while she was in her prime.

Six Strange Life Lessons from Completely Unexpected Sources

“Well, you see, I’m not saying that I’ve been everywhere and done everything, but I do know it’s a pretty amazing planet we live on here and a man would have to be some kind of fool to think we’re all alone in this Universe.” – Big Trouble in Little China

My ex-wife once went missing for a week, and the police told me to expect the worst, so I had to go back to Goodwill® to get her clothes back.

Wisdom doesn’t always wear a tweed jacket with those leather elbow patches, smoke a pipe, and sit and stare in silent judgement over me for hours like the ghost of J.R.R. Tolkien after I do an Internet search for “sexy elves”. Sometimes wisdom comes from a “low-effort because I’m tired after travelling listicle-post”, so here we go . . .

At least we know Deano’s favorite sea creature: a moray.

Trees: Sometimes Just Hanging Around Is a Win

There are roughly three trillion trees on Earth. That’s more trees than there are stars in the entire Milky Way galaxy. I did not make that up, and was surprised when I found out. Most people like trees, but as I’m trying to clean out the forest next to Stately Wilder Manor that I have dubbed Mordor because, “One does not simply walk into Mordor.”

I think too much about trees.

They don’t hustle. They don’t network. They don’t chase trends or pay bills. They just stand there, year after year, doing their job of being an impenetrable forest.

That’s it. That’s the lesson.

I don’t always have to be grinding, optimizing, or “leveling up.” Long-term presence and quiet consistency beat frantic motion most of the time. Trees have been winning at this game for millions of years while the rest of us burn out trying to do everything at once.

Health: Rest and recovery aren’t laziness. They’re how you stay standing when the storms hit.

Wealth: Patient compounding usually destroys the guy who’s constantly chasing the next hot thing.

Happiness: Sometimes the real win is just refusing to move.

While I’m doom-scrolling and stressing, the trees are out here quietly outnumbering the stars. Maybe I should take the hint.

What did the 2% milk carton say? I’m feeling a little drained.

Jack Burton: You Don’t Need to Know Everything to Be the Hero

Jack Burton from Big Trouble in Little China is the ultimate example. Definitely not the one with the master plan. He spends most of the movie confused, cracking bad jokes, but yet swinging when it counts.

And he still ends up the hero.

The lesson is simple: I don’t have to understand every variable or have the perfect strategy. Show up, stay calm when things get weird, and do the next right thing even though I don’t know where everything will end up. That’s often enough.

Health: Consistent basic effort beats analysis paralysis every single time.

Wealth: Good habits and showing up regularly compound.

Life: Confidence and action usually beat having every answer.

Jack Burton didn’t know what the hell was going on half the time. He just kept driving the truck, killing the bad guys, and going with the flow. That sometimes works better than the time I spend overthinking.

I can promise I won’t start a slave labor colony on Mars. They’ll be able to leave the dome whenever they wish.

Cats: They Domesticated Themselves and Only Talk When It Matters

Domestic cats basically moved in with humans on their own terms. They showed up, handled the rats, and let us feed them. Over time we got attached. Adult cats almost never meow to other cats. They save that sound almost exclusively for humans.

That’s strategic communication. They know their audience. They don’t waste energy performing for everyone. They focus where it actually gets results.

Health: Prioritize the relationships and habits that actually support me instead of trying to please the whole world who mostly don’t care if I live or die.

Wealth: Don’t chase every opportunity or person. Focus on the ones that pay off.

Happiness: Authenticity and selective effort beat trying to be liked by everyone.

Cats didn’t ask permission to be part of the household. They just made themselves useful and trained the humans. Then they only spoke up when it was worth their time. Take notes.

Never Get Involved in a Land War in Asia

2026 Update: Never Get Involved in a Land War in Asia.

My Korean friend died yesterday. So Yung.

Everyone Remembers Godzilla. Nobody Remembers the Heroes.

In decades of Godzilla movies, the giant monster is the star. The scientists in lab coats, the soldiers, the regular people trying to stop the destruction as Godzilla stomps his way across Tokyo? They’re mostly forgotten five minutes after the credits roll.

Action gets all the attention. Quiet, steady competence rarely does. Yet, the lab coat guys are usually the ones who actually prevent total collapse.

Health: The boring daily consistency is what actually changes bodies but having 16” biceps never hurts.

Wealth: Nobody remembers the millionaire dentist, but everyone remembers Elon.

Life: Being the reliable one who prevents disaster is more valuable than being the one causing the spectacle, but the only one they’ll remember is the one putting on the show.

I think the local Red Cross® uses ships to move plasma, as often as they talk about their blood vessels.

“Why?” Is Still the Most Powerful Question

Four-year-olds drive adults crazy because they will not stop asking it.

“Why is the sky blue?”

“Why do I have to go to bed?”

“Why can’t I have ice cream for dinner?”

They haven’t yet learned to accept stupid answers and are not yet smart enough to cope with the mathematics of Rayleigh scattering. It’s annoying.

But it’s also their superpower.

I try to never lose the habit of asking why. It cuts through marketing, propaganda, bad habits, and bad advice.

Health: Ask why are these pants tighter than last week.

Wealth: Ask why people think that spending $700 billion on data centers makes sense and if they’re such a great deal why are the hyperscalers selling majority stakes in them.

Life: Questioning things is how I attempt to stay sharp and avoid walking into obvious traps. Kids ask “why” until adults either give a real answer or get annoyed because their small brains are too young to understand a simple equation:

The adults who keep asking “why” tend to do better than the ones who stopped.

Wisdom doesn’t need a stage or a book deal. Sometimes it’s standing quietly in a forest hating trees, driving the Pork Chop Express through minority-owned businesses, training humans without asking permission, not getting involved in land wars in Asia, causing glorious messes, or just refusing to stop asking questions.

Now back to those elves . . .

Just Look At What You’ve Started!

“I fart in your general direction.” – Monty Python and the Holy Grail

I saw the worst page in the dictionary, and what I saw was disgraceful, dishonest, and disgusting.

I find myself, time and again, beginning work that I know I will never see completed.

My time here is finite. That fact sits in the background of everything, the ticking clock.

Still, I keep launching projects where the meaningful results, if they arrive at all, will show up long after I am gone. Sometimes the gap stretches into decades or even centuries. The work starts now because the window for starting is now, even when the finish line sits on the other side of my own existence.

An example of that is the oldest written joke that we know, which is a flatulence joke. It’s not even a good joke. Heck, it’s so bad it’s not even Amy Schumer-tier.

But we know it. And it was a seed planted, thousands of years ago.

A proverb captures the feeling cleanly. It is often traced to ancient Greek sources: a society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they shall never sit.

The personal version lands just as directly. I am planting metaphorical trees under whose shade I will never metaphorically sit. Or fart. Or whatever.

I can cut a log in half just by staring at it. I saw it with my own two eyes.

Having children supplies one clear case where we build that future. Earlier generations treated reproduction as something that largely happened without deliberate long-range planning: a Saturday night and a bottle of wine and, boom, Julius Caesar was born nine months later and was off invading Gaul nine months after that. Biology and circumstance and the Roman Legions carried most of the load.

Today the choice sits in the open.

I began a project whose success or failure will play out across lives that extend well past mine. The uncertainties related to having children arrive immediately, and stay. What sort of people will they become? What attitudes will they carry into whatever conditions they meet? How much of what I do now will actually matter when they make their own choices? Will the daily work of guidance and example turn out to have been enough? What sort of impact will they have on the lives of others?

These questions do not come with easy answers. I did it anyway, fully knowing that large parts of the outcome lie outside any direct observation I will ever have. I’m tossing a message in a bottle into the sea, and one day it will drift beyond my sight.

And it’s okay if you drop a bottle on your foot, since it’s a soft drink.

My writing here forms another example. Each idea or observation I write down moves outward like a ripple from a stone dropped in still water. Some ripples weaken quickly and vanish as distance grows from the initial perturbation. Other of my ripples cross paths with ripples started elsewhere and produce new patterns through interference in the brains of people I’ll never meet.

A smaller number may strengthen when surrounding conditions line up: when an idea meets receptive minds or aligns with events already in motion.

I have no reliable way to track the final shape any of this takes. Has any portion of it improved the world in any way?

I cannot measure that from inside.

What I can control is the attempt to keep what I write aligned with observable reality as closely as possible. The results are not always Beautiful. They are not always Good. They simply aim to stay as True as I can make them. When I’m lucky, they’re two of the three. When I’m very lucky, they’re all three.

Is a long metaphor a metaphiv?

Stepping back gives me yet another perspective.

A single human life occupies almost no space against the age of the Universe. The cosmos we can observe remains young even by its own standards.

Some red dwarfs carry enough fuel supplies to keep them burning for trillions of years, which is slightly longer than The Simpsons has been on TV. Distant descendants, if any exist at that scale, might live under skies lit by those dim red suns and occasionally consider their own origins.

Far more likely, the timescales involved would have erased any specific memory of earlier generations. The thread of continuity will be stretched to the utmost at that great depth of time and only the most basic, the greatest of what is Beautiful, Good and True will remain.

Yet, I keep starting these projects.

I keep choosing to begin work whose completion sits beyond my time on Earth. I try to retell stories that are older than any living man, stories of our history, of self-reliance, of bravery, of what is best in being human.

The way I tell those stories is imperfect and incomplete, but it’s just another tree planted without expectation of sitting under the finished shade.

Why do so few Germans commit crimes? Crimes are illegal.

Perhaps, at some vastly later point, whatever remains of humanity will retain at least a trace of humor about the whole arrangement and maybe a ripple from this time will impact them. That possibility, however small, supplies its own quiet justification for continuing to drop stones into the water.

Besides, farting is intrinsically funny, and if my fart joke survives a trillion years, well, that really would be a blast from the past.

Life Is Hard For A Reason. A Good Reason. Plus Hot Chicks.

“Life’s short and hard like a bodybuilding elf.” – Bloodhound Gang

Regardless, the people at his funeral will be called Paul-bearers.

I bought the book Dune by Frank Herbert when I was a kid. I still recall buying it as it was on one of the monthly trips we took to the book store when we ventured off of Mount Wilder. Ma Wilder was horribly indulgent when it came to books or other healthy creative outlets, like model kits. Books had an unlimited budget around the house, and she never particularly cared which books, as long as I was reading them. As such, at two or three novels a week from age 10 to 16, I read a lot.

I still do.

Dune was one of those. I read it before I started driving. I remember reading it in the time after finishing mowing Grandma Wilder’s lawn and before I was picked on a beautiful summer day decades ago. One thing that struck me is the description in the book of the planet Salusa Secundus. As a kid I mentally pronounced it “Salsa” Secundus, and, well, it is a pretty spicy planet.

I was told to bring an extra jar of liquid cheese, in queso-emergency.

In Herbert’s description, Salusa Secundus was a hell world, horrible weather, murderous beasts, extreme temperatures, awful terrain. It was also the Emperor’s prison where he tossed away the worst criminals of his interstellar empire. “ . . . the mortality rate among new prisoners is higher than sixty percent.”

Yet, here was where the Emperor got his fanatical and tough warriors, the feared Hardeharhar. Oops, different book. I mean the Sardaukar®.

Why there? Well, if you could survive there, you could survive on any planet that a man could live on. And if you could make it though the gauntlet of prisoners trying to kill you, congratulations, you survived the initiation process.

The guards at Big Ben in London look tired! I guess they’re working around the clock.

The idea isn’t a new one. The Spartans had a similar story, as retold by Plutarch, who, despite his name, was not Mickey Mouse’s™ dog:

Another boy . . . when some of his companions had stolen a young fox and delivered it to him . . . hid it under his gown; and though the angry little beast bit through his side to his very guts, he endured it quietly, that he might not be discovered. When the searchers were gone . . . [his friends] chid him roundly, saying, ‘It had been better to produce the fox, than thus to conceal him by losing your own life.’ ‘No, no!’ said he, smiling, ‘it is better to die than to be detected in a base attempt at theft.’

Our teacher told us this story when I was in second grade. Yes. They told it in a somewhat different variation, but they were telling it to seven-year-olds. No trigger warning. No safe space. Just a story about a kid who was so tough that he’d let a fox eat his intestines rather than show weakness.

I think I have an idea where Herbert took his inspiration for the Hardeharhar from.

But at the Best Buy© in Athens you can get advice from the Greek Squad©.

This is a story that resonates, and the deeper it resonates the truer it is. We don’t become strong by being bathed in rose water and sleeping on satin sheets and eating our fill of lemon-cream PEZ© every day, and sailors don’t become captains on calm seas.

We don’t become emotionally strong by never facing hardship.

We don’t become physically strong by sitting on a couch.

We don’t live lives of purpose without getting bruised. Any thing of purpose and worth that one might do will be opposed. Period. Either the odds are against it, the gods are against it, or other people are against it. Sometimes all three.

These are the good fights, if founded in the True, Beautiful and Good. These are the things that are worth the time and effort and pain. These are the things that my scar tissue prepared me for. A life that is based on something that Epictetus said:

Don’t you understand that amounts to saying that I would so prepare myself to endure, and then let anything happen that will happen?

An Epic Cow is really Legend Dairy.

That’s a strong statement. And in a life filled with challenges, it’s hard to understand sometimes why we faced the challenges we did, why we have the scars and bruises that we do. I think it’s because if they didn’t break us and they made us better prepared. Yeah, even Nietzsche was right a time or two, if you include his magnificent mustache.

What then, does this leave us with?

We have today. We have this moment. We have the amazing gift that we can do anything we wish to right now. We can make vows to change the world, we can dedicate (or rededicate) ourselves to fighting for what we know is True, Beautiful, and Good.

And that’s why we’re here. We’re not here for comfort. We’re not here for leisure. We’re not here for quiet. A quiet universe is a dead universe. A universe without conflict is a dead universe. A universe without purpose is a dead universe.

How much mass is in the universe? All of it.

We do not live in a dead universe. We’re breathing, fighting, aberrations, statistical flukes and inconvenient, stubborn fools fighting against entropy and common sense. We see the world and keep going, because, deep down, we have our choices, our reasoned choices that allow us to get up to fight another day.

Or give up.

Me? I choose to keep going, come what may.

Besides, now I’m hungry and am looking for chips and salsa.

Extra spicy. I think I’m ready.

Novelty vs. Routine: The One Line Every Man Must Guard Or Watch His Life Slip Away

“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.” – Bladerunner

And to everyone who said I couldn’t do standup, well, I see you’re not laughing now.

Routine is where life goes to die.

On reflection the other day I was a bit amused to note how much of my life is on autopilot. I have three pairs of pants that are all the same that I wear for work that are identical in cut, color, and comfort, so I never have to stand in front of the closet wondering what matches what. I have six shirts that rotate on my torso for daily wear, each one as unremarkable as the last. I get up, generally, within one minute of the same time each day, and the Wildermobile™ hits the pavement within the same thirty seconds each workday. I have cigars three times a week, on the same days and at the same approximate time, rain or shine, good mood or bad.

Why three times a week?

Well, because insurance says that means I’m a non-smoker. It’s a loophole I’m happy to exploit, and it keeps the premiums from getting as high as Johnny Depp jumping on Mount Everest.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I set those things up on purpose. I figure I have only so much energy to make decisions each day, so why not save it up and also pre-make decisions for the time I’m stupidest each day? For me, that’s in the morning when I get up. Brush teeth first, pants second, and if I’m lucky they’re on my legs and not as a unique set of chestless arm chaps. No debate, no drama, just forward motion.

It’s like giving my brain a head start on the real work that comes later. This makes sense to me. Efficient. Practical. The kind of system a man builds when he realizes life is long on demands and short on spare mental horsepower.

But.

I get concerned sometimes that I’ve pre-programmed life a bit too much, and created too much of a routine. The reason I’m concerned is that all of those minutes faced with nothing novel or consequential happening slip away like the replicant played by Rutger Hauer says in Blade Runner: “All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.”

And the mostest lostest will be those moments where I was living life on routine, putting one foot in front of the other with hours of my life slipping by on autopilot. The coffee is hot, the drive is the exact same stretch of highway, the cigar smoke curls up exactly as it did last Tuesday. Comfortable, yes.

But is comfort the same as living?

Time is really one of the biggest fascinations of my life. Even as a kid, I was obsessed with the idea that something new is only bright and shiny when it’s brand new, and after a certain amount of damage it simply can’t be made to look new again. It wears. It gets scratched and dinged, and none of that is, short of melting it down and remaking it new again, reversible.

Time does that to everything, including us. I can go back to the home I left this morning, but I can’t go back to this morning. It’s a lost country, a place where I can only go in my memory. Gone.

Irretrievable.

And what if every morning is the same for a thousand days? Haven’t I just compressed all of my life into one single Groundhog Day, with the only exception that I’m getting older, less shiny and new? Less naïve? Less innocent?

The calendar pages flip, but the days bleed together into one long, grey blur.

I wake up, I do the things, I go to bed, and suddenly a decade has vanished while I was busy being responsible.

The flip side of routine is novelty.

I remember the first night I met The Mrs., the way the room felt electric and the conversation refused to end. I remember my first car. I remember my first touchdown. I remember my last day of college.

I remember building the first Pinewood Derby® car with The Boy and the last one with Pugsley. Those moments and milestones that make up the peaks and valleys of life. Those, certainly, have made my life longer. Not in years, but in the way that life stretches when something real happens. I remember those moments intensely.

There’s a fine line, though.

If my life is nothing but novelty, then what chance do I have of creating something useful, of establishing meaning with my life?

There is none.

Chaos is where life goes to lose meaning. One wild distraction after another, no anchor, no progress, just a pinball existence bouncing from shiny object to shiny object until nothing sticks and nothing matters.

If my life is always routine, I’m pushing every bit of meaning away, becoming a grey man in a gray room on a grey house on a gray hill. Everything blends. Nothing stands out. The days stack up like identical bricks in a wall you can’t see over, and one day I realize the wall is my life and I built it yourself.

I have this thought, mainly because Pugsley is mostly on his own now. I figure the time when I’ve spent half of the hours I’ll ever spend with him was sometime in 2015 or 2016. He’s now out in the world.

That realization sneaks up on a father like a quiet thief. No warning bell when the halfway mark passes. I just look up one day and notice the house is quieter, the schedule has gaps, and the kid you taught to ride a bike is suddenly navigating highways I’ll never drive.

It forces the question: so what now?

Again, routine is where life goes to die, and chaos is where life goes to lose its meaning.

Routine is Scylla; Chaos, Charybdis. I love it when I work a semicolon into a sentence!

We paddle between the two monsters, trying not to get devoured by either. Too much of one and we drown in sameness. Too much of the other and we drown in noise.

I think we as a culture are caught between these two monsters right now. We have chaos in the never-ending rise of technological advancement, which at the same time turns faces toward the black mirrors in their hands, where they take the cold comfort of doomscrolling their life away in an endless sea of other people’s outrage and other people’s highlights. Every notification promises novelty with a new opinion that will surely change everything.

But it doesn’t.

It just scrolls.

The phone lights up, the brain lights up, and another slice of irreplaceable time disappears into the glow. We’ve engineered a world that offers infinite novelty at the cost of any real depth, and we wonder why so many feel hollow.

Reality, I think, is part of the antidote. Writing is, for me. Sure, I do it on a routine: same time, same chair, same keyboard, but each post is something different. Each one starts from a fresh thought, a fresh observation, a fresh wrestle with whatever corner of life is nagging at me that week.

It’s routine that (mostly) invites novelty instead of smothering it.

And getting out and accomplishing something in the physical world is also important, too. Building something with my hands. Moving my body until it complains and then keeps going anyway. These things don’t just fill time; they mark it.

They leave evidence that I was here, that I did something that outlasts the doomscroll.

The balance isn’t perfect and it never will be. Some days the routine wins because the world demands it. Other days novelty crashes in whether I wanted it or not.

The trick, I’m learning, is to guard the line between them like it’s the most important border in your life. Protect enough routine to keep the engine running and enough novelty to keep the engine pointed somewhere worth going.

Because time doesn’t wait for us to figure it out. It keeps moving, wearing us down, turning shiny new mornings into well-worn afternoons.

And if I’m going to lose moments like tears in rain, I’d rather a few of them be the kind worth remembering: sharp, vivid, and undeniably mine, than a thousand identical ones that blur together into nothing at all.

China’s Unrestricted Economic War on America

“You can go off and rule the Universe from beyond the grave.” – Big Trouble in Little China

I guess the French are sensitive about jokes like that. Sore losers.

I’ll admit it right up front. For years I did exactly what millions of other Americans did. I rolled into Walmart©, grabbed a cart, and filled it with cheap Chinese stuff: tools that broke after one use, plastic Godzilla© toys that lit up for a week, and clothes that wore out by the second wash. It was easy. It was affordable. And yeah, I played along, just like everybody else.

We called it “free trade.” What was it really?

It was the slow, deliberate hollowing out of American manufacturing.

Factories closed. Main street died. Towns emptied. Skills vanished. Whole supply chains got shipped overseas under the polite fiction that cheap imports would make us all richer.

They didn’t, at least long term. They made China richer and left us weaker. The base of our economy, the ability to make things, got gutted while we congratulated ourselves on saving a few bucks on a toaster while the Chinese progressed to manufacturing iPhones® on a global scale.

Found two lumps on my car battery, had them tested. One came back positive. Looks like it’s terminal.

But manufacturing was just the opening act. Now let’s talk about our farms.

In the last couple of years we’ve seen Chinese nationals caught red-handed trying to bring biological weapons straight into the heart of American agriculture. Take the 2025 case out of Michigan:

Two Chinese citizens, one a University of Michigan scholar with a PhD in plant pathogens from a Chinese university and the other her boyfriend, got busted trying to smuggle fusarium graminearum into the country through Detroit Metro Airport. That fungus isn’t some harmless underarm cheese cultivated by AntiFa. Nope. This fungus wrecks wheat, barley, and corn before they can be turned to their highest possible use, making booze.

This fungus can wipe out entire harvests and has the added bonus terror of pumping out mycotoxins that poison livestock and people. Being late to the party for any crime not committed by white guys who were their paid informants, the feds called it an “agroterrorism weapon.”

What has 43 actors, four settings, six writers, and one plot? 430 Netflix® movies.

The “scholar” is a Chinese Communist Party member. They were caught in July 2024. The FBI noted this was the second such case involving a Chinese national tied to the same university in a matter of days. The second.

In days.

How long have these shenanigans been going on. Florida is known for cocaine, Florida Man®, and orange. Back in 2005, citrus greening showed up in Miami. The disease is caused by a bacterium native to Asia, spread by the Asian citrus psyllid, another Asian import.

Nobody knows exactly how it arrived. Within a few years, citrus trees stopped producing decent fruit. Groves died by the thousands. Production got cut in half. Farmers went broke. Entire communities that had grown oranges for generations watched their livelihood rot on the diseased trees.

Florida used to be the orange juice capital of the world.

Is it a coincidence that a devastating Asian disease suddenly explodes in America’s second biggest citrus state or part of a longer pattern?

The Earth is has a high proportion of surface covered with water, but little of it is carbonated. The Earth is flat.

Then there’s the poultry industry.

Since early 2022 the chicken farmers have been culling birds by the tens of millions because of highly pathogenic avian influenza: bird flu. Under the Biden administration the numbers got biblical: over 168 million birds affected across commercial and backyard flocks in nearly every state. The result? Massive egg shortages, price spikes, farmers watching their entire operations wiped out in days.

The virus spreads through wild birds, sure. But the timing, the scale, and the economic damage line up awfully neatly with a strategy that weakens America’s food production without a single missile being fired.

I’ve said it before on this blog and I’ll say it again: the Chinese government actually seems to care about making the majority of its people successful. Yeah, individual rights get stepped on. That’s how Chinese society has operated since at least 232 B.C., when Wang Chung won the battle of Win Kong over the Chang Sing and something like 78 million people died.

In the middle of the battle, I switched to my knife to save ammo. Now I’m banned from playing paintball.

Are the Chinese ruthless?

Absolutely.

But the rulers in Beijing have always understood that a strong, productive Chinese population is the foundation of their national and international power. They invest in their people and push them to succeed to keep the machine humming. Contrast that with our own leadership, which often seems to compete to be the bigger champion for bringing in illegals: Democrats as voters and welfare targets or Republicans who want cheap labor. If having millions of illegals or millions of Indians in a society is an advantage, well, China must be falling behind.

Right?

China looks at the world and sees that there’s only one nation standing between them and outright global dominance: the United States.

Open war? Too expensive, too risky, and today’s Chinese just won’t make the sacrifices the old Chinese would to eat their enemies.

But why bother when you can win without firing a shot?

That’s exactly what two People’s Liberation Army colonels spelled out back in 1999. Qiao Liang and Wang Xiangsui wrote a treatise called Unrestricted Warfare. This is nothing less than a blueprint for beating a technologically superior enemy by doing, well, whatever was necessary.

Forget tanks and jets. Qiao and Wang (good name for a urologist) talked about “beyond limits combined war”, and it was exactly that.

“Hey, NASA, your mom said I was big enough.” – Pluto

Trade warfare, financial warfare, resource warfare, PEZ™ warfare, ecological warfare, psychological warfare, smuggling warfare, media warfare, drug warfare, network (cyber) warfare, technological warfare, fabrication warfare, economic aid warfare, and international lawfare.

The idea was simple: use every possible tool to erode the enemy’s strength while pretending you’re just a friendly neighbor.

How many of those boxes have they checked?

Trade warfare? Done. They flooded our markets, stole our manufacturing base, and used the WTO like a Trojan horse.
Financial warfare? They’ve been buying up U.S. debt, manipulating currency, and positioning themselves to pull the rug out when the time is right, which might be now.
Ecological warfare? See the citrus groves and the poultry barns and the Michigan fungus folks. Introduce a pathogen here, a pest there, and watch the food supply strain.
Smuggling warfare? Fentanyl, anyone?
Cyber and network warfare? Constant hacks, intellectual-property theft, missing hard drives from Los Alamos, and infrastructure probes that never quite rise to the level of “war.”
Psychological and media warfare? Want to bet that China was stoking the fires on both sides in Minnesota during George Floyd?

The playbook was published over twenty-five years ago while we patted ourselves on the back for cheap socks and iPhones.

But not if I were a ghost hunter. Then? Pair of normal socks.

China has been at war, and hope to win before the rest of the world even notices. It’s unrestricted economic warfare, and it’s already here.

But thankfully, we’ve had Godzilla® help us learn the true source of economic wealth in society.

Flipping houses.

Every Where You Look: The Game

“I’m giving you a choice: either put on these glasses or start eating that trash can.” – They Live

“I’m hear to chew bubblegum and kick ass. And I’m all out of bubblegum.” (all memes as found)

Most posts aren’t connected, outside of they’re all written by me. However, the last few have been following a theme that’s pretty old: mistaking The Game for reality, even Plato wrote about it. There are times we all get stuck in it. It’s pretty seductive. We mistake The Game for reality, often to our own detriment.

What’s The Game?

The Game is where life moves away from reality. Money (or currency, or cash, which are not the same thing but we’ll use interchangeably in this post) was invented as a way to make trade easier. Gold and silver were great because they didn’t rust, could be split up in itty bitty increments, and couldn’t be printed.

Money is an invention. Collectively, humans made it.

We also invented interest rates. Back a year or so ago (I’m too lazy to look it up) I invited everyone to think differently about the world by changing one simple thing: eliminate interest on money.

If you haven’t seen the movie They Live, you should. But when I suggested that “Let’s pretend that interest rates don’t exist,” I felt like Rowdy Roddy Piper trying to get Keith David to put on the ZZTop® sunglasses that (spoiler) allowed humans to see that half the people around him were aliens.

I mean, we didn’t get in a fistfight that lasted 20 minutes, but no one wanted to play a different version of The Game. It was such a fundamental departure from the way the current world worked that people just couldn’t imagine it.

This is what The Game does.

I’ll guarantee that your great grandparents moving across the American West or settling in Kentucky or working a farm in Virginny could have imagined life without interest rates. Many of them may not have borrowed money at interest at all.

In their lives.

It’s not that money didn’t matter, it most certainly did. But if you grubstaked a house on the prairie you might have had to borrow a dollar or two until the crop came in, but it was probably to the store, and it probably wasn’t at interest. Who would even loan against a farm? Land was free for those that could homestead it. Banking for everyone is a new invention. Just like interest rates, it was just a new rule for The Game.

The reason? Why not extend The Game to everyone so that they could transfer their wealth at six percent per year to the owners of a bank?

Large amounts of society are like this. It is a large part of why it was so crucial to the COVID tRUsT tHe ScIENce crowd. This was in a time of general insanity as the “trans-women are women” and “women are exactly like men” and “black people are really oppressed and George Floyd was murdered” hysteria hit peaks.

All of these are symptoms that The Game is afoot, and there is nothing a person who has bought into The Game will fight more than having the rules of The Game challenged. And if individuals fight hard, the system will fight even harder.

January 6, anyone?

If I were a suspicious man, I’d think this was all an intentional plan to move away from the real to the fantasy world of make-believe things like money. The transition for money moved from:

Money is something tangible. Gold, yes. Silver, maybe along with some copper and nickel. But I don’t trust silver or copper or nickel much.
Okay, gold is so important you can’t touch it but you can keep your silver coins. Only the government. Oh, and the gold that we just took from you? We’re going to immediately double its value. But the dollar will always be backed by gold.
Silver in coins are too expensive to make. We’ll just make them out of base metals.
Gold? We’re just going to have dollars. You can buy your gold back.
Pennies? Too expensive to make, we lose money on every single one we make. We’ll skip ‘em.
Say, have you tried some of this electronic digital cash so we can track everything you buy? So convenient and easy!

The reality has been twisted, and taking your money from you via interest payments and taxes wasn’t enough, they had to take the money, too. The rules of The Game have been changed.

And me arguing that getting rid of interest rates is a crazy thought experiment?

The way your money was taken the same way your rights are taken. They are removed slowly, people are nudged. If you follow the Supreme Court, the plain language of the document has been twisted so far as for some judges to believe that somewhere in the Constitution is the protected right of dual citizens to

Exist, and
Serve in jobs like congressman or as a federal judge.

But, yet, the plain language allowing me to own military-grade weapons means that I shouldn’t be allowed anything more powerful than a shotgun pellet gun bb-gun squirt gun dart gun Nerf™ gun, and my right to the Nerf® gun isn’t absolute.

The rules of The Game have been changed.

Okay, I made this one.

The same way that your rights are taken is the same way your values are taken.

Imagine society in 1950. Perfect? No. If you didn’t mow your lawn, you couldn’t get a job or a loan. Society rejected you, but those may have been features, rather than bugs.

Likewise, gays couldn’t adopt and certainly couldn’t get jobs where they would be alone with children – that would be insane! But then The Game changed. The Catholic Church decided that they could trust gay priests, since priests were celibate and, besides, God loves gay people, too, right?

Ouch. Not so much. It wasn’t the “priest” that caused the problem, it was the “gay”.

Gay people existed then. Not in such large numbers because, for large numbers of gay people today “gay” is a choice. And back then, the choice was made for you, and communities who had sexual fetishes about latex-covered toasters didn’t exist because there was no Reddit™ to connect them all.

That was better. Rule changes to The Game have spread farther, faster in our connected world.

But our values have been ripped away via rule changes to The Game. Nothing is wrong, except thinking something is wrong. Silly. The Game is about inclusion. Even to the point of including people who hate you. This is what is wrong with the world today.

Yeah. See what that’s doing with birth rates. But its also on purpose. These values have been chipped at every year since at least the 1950s until the only value that The Game will leave you with is the value of money.

And they’ll even take that away from you.

Just try on the damn glasses, why don’t you?

Change, Propaganda, And Painting Lessons

“You were looking for a way to change your life.” – Fight Club

His pizza was also burnt and his beer was frozen. He couldn’t pull anything out on time.

I’ve stared at the ceiling at 3 a.m. more times than I care to count in the past, wondering why some things in my life change and others stay stuck like a rusted engine nut on a ’78 Jeep® pickup.

Change.

It sounds simple. Turn left instead of right. Take the red pill or the blue pill or both. Eat the salad. Quit the habit I want to quit. But the real change, the kind that rewires who I am, doesn’t happen because somebody tells me to change. Change doesn’t happen because the boss is watching or the government posts another billboard. Change happens when something inside me finally decides it’s time.

And the crazy part?

I control that switch. No matter what my situation looks like right now, no matter how many birthdays I’ve stacked up, that control is still mine.

Let me tell you what doesn’t work.

But the boarding agent said she could have pie once we got to our seats: “There’ll be a piece when you are done.”

First, someone trying to make me change.

Forget it. I’m stubborn. Bull-headed, really. Push me, and I’ll dig in like a moist Missouri mule afflicted with mucus. I’ve sent pushy salesmen packing more times than I can remember. They come at me with the hard sell, the guilt trip, the “you really should” speech, and my natural reaction is to do the exact opposite.

It’s not rational.

It’s not even smart sometimes. But it’s me.

Second, someone with power hovering over my shoulder, monitoring me.

Sure, I’ll toe the line while they’re looking. I’ll smile, nod, and change exactly enough to get them off my back. The minute the spotlight moves, though? Back to business as usual. No buy-in. No real shift. Just temporary theater. I know I’m not the only one.

Third, the whole society-is-watching angle.

This is Big Brother with a million little henchmen. I’ll admit it: back when I was a kid, the “Give a hoot, don’t pollute®” campaign actually worked on wee Wilder. I picked up trash and felt good about it. But that was simple. Today it’s different. Now it’s algorithms written for the fat-breasted blue-haired virtue warbler. It’s social pressure and cameras everywhere, all trying to nudge behavior.

My kids wanted a puppy for Christmas, but I told them they were eating ham like everyone else.

I see it for what it is: a fancier version of the same old “boss is watching me” game.

I might play along in public when I absolutely must, but inside?

Still no sale.

So, what actually moves the needle?

Only one thing I’ve ever found works that works on me or anyone else:

changing values.

And values don’t change because of logic. They change because of emotion, and not common emotions like “cold” or “sleepy” or “salt.” No. Raw, strong, gut-punch emotion.

I posed naked for a magazine once. The lady at the 7-11® counter sure overreacted.

Take when I became a new father. One minute the world revolved around me. The next minute I was holding this tiny human who depended on me for everything, and I realized the universe didn’t orbit John Wilder anymore unless I put on enough weight to create my own gravity well. That was a big deal.

Not a lecture.

Not a chart.

Just pure, overwhelming emotion. My values shifted: “providing” and “protecting” now were more important than “buzzed” and “sleepy”. Everything else got rearranged around that.

I’ve seen the same thing in guys who barely survive a heart attack.

One day they’re carrying an extra seventy pounds, puffing on cigs, eating like a fat girl on a date with a blind man.

The next day after their slow dance with the reaper?

They drop the weight, kill the habits, start running, and turn into the most irritating health evangelists you’ve ever met, nearly as bad as bicycling atheist vegan transexual Harvard™ grads.

Nearly dying does that, I guess.

When I’m surrounded by my family, with my last breath I want to say: “Hey, you guys want to see a dead body?”

It’s not a gentle suggestion from a doctor. It’s terror and relief and gratitude and fear all slamming together at once into the conclusion that there are a finite amount of seconds left on that clock.

Emotion rewires the hardware.

That’s also exactly how propaganda works. It skips the logic and goes straight for the deepest buttons we have: lust, fear, the need to belong, pain, despair and the need for PEZ™. Most of them are negative, because negative is easy to manufacture, and negative sticks.

And in 2026 we’re swimming in it.

Screens, news, ads, entertainment are a constant bombardment trying to shift what we value without us even noticing.

One excellent YouTuber® on this subject is Screenwashed™, and he talks about how films are used to destroy our culture. He breaks down the subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways Hollywood rewires what we think is normal, what we think is heroic, what we think we should want. I’m not sure exactly how long it’ll be before they come to get this guy, but I’d suggest you give him a look. Here’s one of his videos.

Even I, the mighty John Wilder, am not immune from propaganda. I’ve caught myself feeling emotions I didn’t ask for after watching something “harmless.” That’s why I’ve gotten deliberate about what I let into my head.

I pick and choose.

I pause and ask: What emotion is this feeding me right now?

Why?

Does it line up with the man I want to be, or is it nudging me toward someone else’s script?

The external stuff can scream all it wants. The pressures, the trends, the crises, the propaganda machines can poke and prod and threaten. But the final decision on what I value? That’s mine. Always has been.

The best addiction to have is injecting yourself with brake fluid. You can stop anytime you want.

We can all flip it.

Not because some expert or politician or trending hashtag told us to. Not because someone’s watching or shaming. But because we decide to let in an emotion strong enough to move the values that actually run your life.

Starve the propaganda. Examine every emotion that shows up at your door and decide if it gets to stay.

Change isn’t a mystery. It’s not reserved for the young or the lucky or the disciplined. It’s a simple, stubborn fact: I control the basis of it. I always have. And so do you.

The world can keep pushing.

I’ll keep deciding.