Wilder, Wealthy, and Wise

“That which you desire, controls you.”

“Egon, somehow this reminds me of the time you tried to drill a hole in your head. Do you remember that?” – Ghostbusters

See, a bottle of wine costs $15. Plus the crap I buy on Amazon.

That which you desire, controls you.

Let’s look at common examples:

Money
Power
Respect
Sex
Great Parking Spaces at Denny’s
Friendship
Water in the Sahara Desert
“Buy One Get One Free” Coupons for Chocolate Dipped Ice Cream Cones at Dairy Queen®
Booze
Glittery Sunglasses in the Shape of Stars

Can’t you feel their magnetic pull?

When we see these desires, we see those who are driven by them and are instinctively repulsed. An example: when The Mrs. and I were newly married, we had an idea for a book – a humorous parody of the Clinton administration. Its title? An Intern’s Guide to the White House. I thought it was funny, and maybe we even still have a copy sitting around somewhere. If so, I’ll post it sometime – we got hooked up with a bad literary agent (we were young and stupid) and it never got published. But like George Washington jokes, that material is just a little out of date.

This is like a photo from the world’s most awkward prom.

But back when we were still optimistic the Intern’s Guide, The Mrs. and I were excited when the Starr Report (a report by the independent counsel looking into the Clintons) came out. We felt that it would make a perfect sequel to our Intern’s Guide. Heck, the working title for the sequel was The Starch Report.

Then I read the Starr Report. Ugh. What President Clinton did was . . . sad. You can forgive lots of things, but getting past disgust over behavior that was, by any standards, weak and pathetic is a pretty high bar. And it wasn’t the perjury that was the worst part – it was the complete lack of self-control. Just because a complete lack of self-control is legal doesn’t make it moral or desirable.

As you can see from President Clinton’s example, this lust wasn’t just a weakness, it was personally destructive to him. And some of our greatest fiction, Shakespeare’s Macbeth, for example, explores this same theme. I still recall when Macbeth, in the movie version, gets kicked off campus. Then he and his wacky friends form a paranormal investigating service, and save New York from Macduff, who is portrayed as the Stay-Puft® Marshmallow Man.

Ahh, Shakespeare at his best.

But history has shown time and time again how lust for sex or lust for power has led to the downfall of the powerful – like the time Weinstein put the moves on Napoleon and Napoleon outed him on Twitter® with the #NapoleonToo campaign. But in all seriousness – if Napoleon had been content with France? If Weinstein could be . . . not Weinstein? Napoleon could have gone down in history as an amazing leader and statesman. And Weinstein could have maintained his revered status in Hollywood.

In the end, greed makes you poor. Need makes you needy. And desire makes you a slave.

But you’re saying, “John Wilder, all of that seems kind of negative. What’s the solution, I mean besides joining your cult of the Nudist Beatnik Threesome?”

Outcome independence. The idea of outcome independence is that who you are doesn’t change based on the results, and, win or lose you realize that’s an okay outcome. Like Kipling wrote in his poem, If (LINK):

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two impostors just the same . . .

You are independent of the outcomes around you – your job, the last raise you got, all of it. That’s not outcome indifference. Not at all. Throw yourself into getting to an outcome that you’re passionate about. Outcome independence isn’t being without passion, because nothing worthwhile ever gets done without passion. Let me explain with an example:

I was nearly a freshman in high school, and was mildly infatuated with a girl in class. Back then, people had phone books, and had their names in the book.

I called her house. Her dad (a doctor) answered.

“Is Michelle in?”

“Michelle, it’s for you.”

Michelle: “Hello?”

John Wilder: “Hi Michelle, it’s John Wilder. Interested in going to go see a movie?”

Michelle: “I’m sorry – I’m busy that night.”

Seriously, I didn’t leave anything out of the conversation. I asked her to a movie, and she said she was busy. But I had never said when I wanted to take her to a movie or even what movie. Even freshman me understood that meant that there was no night, ever, when she’d say yes.

Even then I was amused. I really wanted to go out with her – I was not indifferent – she was pretty cute. But when the outcome was negative, I didn’t have the slightest bit of loss of self-worth. There were lots of girls out there.

But failure is a result, too. I prefer to win. Strongly. But winning doesn’t make me a better person, and it doesn’t make me more moral – look at all of the really horrible people that have been successful. I could name them, but they have lawyers. I learned my lesson with Gandhi.

Losses can be better than a win . . . sometimes:

What did you learn?
Are you stronger?
Would success have been bad for you?
Is this just a temporary loss that brings about a greater victory?
Can you lose gracefully?
Is the loss pointing you to a mistake you’re making that you need to correct?

The best victories are internal. I know when I hit “publish” on a post whether or not I liked the post, whether or not I hit a home run. I really want you to like it, too, but internally, I know when I enjoyed writing it, and am pleased with the results. I’m passionate about it, and when I know I’ve done a good job, it makes it hard to go to sleep. I’m excited.

And I get enjoyment out of failing, too. If you never failed, victory wouldn’t feel so good. But I’d still like some glittery star glasses.

What Hockey Taught Me About My Life and My Career (Bonus: Broadswords)

“This is hockey, OK? It’s not rocket surgery.” – Mystery, Alaska

“You da goalie, not Yoda® goalie.” I have to get my hearing checked.

When I was in middle school, one week we played hockey for P.E. Where I grew up it was certainly cold enough for water to freeze – but we didn’t have any water, it being nearly a desert and all. A typical backyard mud puddle in Midwestia is bigger than things we called “lakes” growing up, and you could wade across the local river at flood stage and not get your pants wet. We did, however, have a gym and roller skates.

A group of uncoordinated seventh graders attempting to roller skate on a gym floor for the first time probably looked like a gaggle of hippos juggling wet sheepdogs. I wouldn’t know exactly what we looked like, I was busy studying the wood grain of the floor by repeatedly falling onto the free throw line as my skates stubbornly refused to stay underneath me. The nearly frictionless wheels kept twisting my legs at angles only experienced by crash test dummies, Thanksgiving turkeys, and a stoned Elon Musk.

Why were we so pathetic?

The nearest roller rink was 30 miles away, and what passed for concrete in town was concrete in concept only, with the newest patches of sidewalk having been put down personally by President Roosevelt as he raced Hitler in a sidewalk building contest to determine who had to have Italy on their side. Anyway, what concrete existed in town was broken, jagged, and was used by NASA to simulate walking on the Moon because it was so rough and powdery. If we wanted to skate that left skating in actual dirt, because skating on the highway was illegal in every state in the nation until Virginia just recently legalized 30^th trimester abortions.

I got to be team captain, and no one really argued when I picked goalie as my position. In two teams of horrible skaters, I was the worst. Being goalie didn’t require much skating, just being quick and a lot of intentional falling. As I could fall unintentionally, intentional falling was even easier. The puck was a hollow plastic disk that weighed next to nothing, and I was quick enough to stop nearly every shot.

It didn’t hurt my goal-tending streak that this was the first time that any of us had ever played hockey and everyone was a horrible shot. I’m pretty sure that our P.E. instructor had only the vaguest idea of what the rules were since he informed us that in order to start the game we had to sacrifice the smallest and weakest player in the middle of the gym for the strength of the tribe while drinking Moosehead® beer. Since we were underage, he drank all our beers for us.

We’ll all miss Benji.

As I grew older, there was a period of a few years where I watched actual NHL® professional hockey, until they just stopped showing it on any network I could find. But watching hockey was different than watching other sports – in an average game the players are (at times) going 25-27 miles per hour, and the puck itself is often moving in excess of 100 miles per hour. In the NFL®, the top receivers run about 20 miles per hour for short bursts, but average much less.

Because of the increased speed in hockey, minor differences in starting position resulted in big separations between players as they accelerated across the ice. The importance of that separation is the same in all sports, but I really was able to see it when it came to hockey due to the faster speeds. What’s really important is time and space. With enough time and space, a hockey player can break away from the crowd and attack the goalie one on one. With enough time and space, players can be where the action will be five seconds from now.

The same principle holds in football. With enough time and space, a wide receiver can break away from the defense and score. I think it holds true in soccer as well, but too often the players are just sitting on the field knitting and drinking brightly colored cocktails with whimsical umbrellas and chunks of fruit before they go shoe shopping. I think soccer would be much more interesting if they gave the players broadswords with no real rules or guidance on how they are to be used in the game.

Now, imagine with swords. See? Better already.

But what happens in sports also happens in real life, minus my really cool broadsword idea. The analogy of time and space is incredibly important to people who are trapped on mountains as the storm comes in, or the logistics in supporting an army in the field, or even the position of the individual units in a battle. Put 5,000 men in the right place and the right time and almost any battle in history swaps winners. Heck, 300 Spartans (plus 700 Thespians) changed the course of history and saved Western Civilization. Tell me that Xerxes wouldn’t love to have that one back – lose to the Greeks just the one time and you never hear the end of it.

If only they had compromised, imagine how we’d remember them.

To “maximize” your financial potential, you should use your time and space to be where the action is. Sadly, for my career the right place is bigger cities – huge cities, with populations of millions of people. A bigger city would be okay, but from what I’ve seen of cities, most of those millions of people I won’t like. They just seem to be in the way when I try to drive on the congested roads. Broadswords would be helpful here, too. The city is filled with activities, though. Activities that I really don’t want to do – except for nice restaurants and museums, and getting to a big city four or five times a year is necessary, mainly to remind me of all the reasons why I don’t want to move back to a big city.

Thankfully, though, I don’t need to maximize my financial potential – the mortgage that I pay here in Modern Mayberry is less than 27% of the cost for an apartment in San Francisco, and on a per square foot basis? My cost is 5% (that’s not a misprint) of what I’d pay per square foot in ‘Frisco (the locals love it when you call it that, I hear). That 5% number just includes house square footage, and doesn’t include the 10 acres the house is on.

With life, time is still time, and space is still space. And during a career, money is space AND time. If you only have enough money for this month, you have that much time. If you have years of money saved up, you have that much time (and more). Savings is opportunity. Savings provides options – and those options expand your opportunities. Enough money gives you time and space – time and space to try things, risky things that have higher rewards. Or? Give you time and space to just do what you want.

Which for me is not hockey. I’ve seen enough gym floors, thank you.

But . . . hear me out . . . how about hockey with broadswords??

The Constitution, Star Trek, and Threats to Freedom . . .

“Among my people, we carry many such words as this from many lands, many worlds. Many are equally good and are as well respected, but wherever we have gone, no words have said this thing of importance in quite this way. Look at these three words written larger than the rest, with a special pride never written before, or since, tall words proudly saying, “We the People” – that which you call Ee’d Plebnista, was not written for the chiefs or kings or the warriors or the rich or the powerful, but for all the people.” – Star Trek

This wasn’t my history book, but it wasn’t far off from what they taught us.

Weirdly, when I was a young child my teachers indoctrinated all of us in a love of country, a love of our institutions, and a love of our history. The lesson plan was simple – America was pretty cool, and most other countries were cool in their own way with their fake money and wooden shoes, but none of them could toss a man on the moon, since we found those particular Germans first. I remember being in kindergarten and wondering, “Why was I so lucky to be born in America?”

When I was growing up, there were only three channels of television, no VHS players (that Ma and Pa thought we needed). Every day when I got home – the same show was on television – Star Trek©. Consequently, I watched every episode. Seven hundred times, which explains my Captain Kirk reference above. One thing I noted was that whenever Kirk had to fight an omnipotent supercomputer, all he had to do was give it an impossible logic problem and it would catch fire. Really. Every time. Apparently artificial intelligence is extremely flammable.

Thankfully Kirk can read space American.

I’ve always loved the idea of the Constitution. Heck, Captain Kirk even read it to space Americans in one episode of Star Trek© after the space Americans beat the space Commies. Between well-deserved beatings (they did that regularly back then, at least to me) and episodes of Star Trek™ I did absorb enough of the school lessons to develop a great respect for the Bill of Rights. The Bill of Rights is that wonderful set of listed freedoms that became the first ten amendments to the Constitution. I won’t go through all of them, but first among them is this one:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

As ideas go, this one is a doozy, and is split into three different but related concepts. This amendment doesn’t allow Congress to establish a religion even if everyone in Congress felt that Wildernetics© was a good idea and really improved your skin. At least Congress can’t stop people from exercising mainstream religions like Wildernetics™, or even a fringe religions like Christianity (unless of course you’re a Christian and refuse to make a cake for people who are engaged in something your religion disagrees with). Then your religion really isn’t important, just as the Founding Fathers intended.

The second bit is the idea that freedom of speech is protected. Except hate speech and speech on corporate media servers. Hate speech is criminal. And corporate media servers certainly can’t be made to hold ideas that would make the corporate owners uncomfortable (or unprofitable). And the press is likewise free, unless it’s Alex Jones. Then it should be shut down and should be smothered in the warm, loving embrace of lawsuits.

When I met The Mrs., she was a liberal because of freedom – she thought that party was the best one to support freedoms, which in her mind started with freedom of speech. I was a right-libertarian for the same reasons. Oddly, in 2019, the left is the strongest opponent of free speech while the right appears to be kinda in favor of speech, sometimes.

The right of the people to peaceably assemble has been long celebrated, as long as the ideas are popular and the proper permits have been received. If the ideas are unpopular, police protection can be lifted so violent mobs can make bad ideas go away. Again, just as the Founding Fathers intended. I love the idea of the Constitution, and I love the ideas in the First Amendment, but it seems to be treated like the police and courts as more of a suggestion than an actual protection if they don’t agree with the ideas being protected.

But I’ve been thinking a bit further: the Constitution is supposed to be a bulwark of protection for the freedom of Americans, but is it? Are there ideas that are so insidious that they are dangerous to the liberty that the Constitution is supposed to protect?

Our Constitution, however, is not a robot. But it’s also 230 years old, and people who like to control others have been working to subvert the Constitution just as long. But is the First Amendment the equivalent of a logic bomb? Are there ideas or religions that are incompatible with the very spirit of the Constitution and Western Civilization?

I know that sounds like another of Kirk’s logic bombs: are there ideas so intolerant that they can’t be tolerated? Once upon a time, I would have argued that the answer was no. The real reason is because in 1850 or 1950 or 1970 or even 1980, no one took the ideas of those who would use the Constitution to dismantle itself seriously.

Now the people who would dismantle the Constitution seem to be in Congress . . . where is Kirk when we need him?

Resolutions, Record Clubs, Susan Anton, and Loneliness

“Where are they? Where are your friends now? Tell me about the loneliness of good, He-Man. Is it equal to the loneliness of evil?” – Masters of the Universe

My obituary? Killed by a flying Peter Frampton tape. At least it’s better than Steely Dan.

When I was twelve, I made two (that I can recall) New Year’s resolutions. My parents had gone to bed, and my brother, John Wilder, was off at college, so I sat solo on the couch near the fireplace as midnight neared. I watched the ball drop in New York City and pretended that it was happening now, and hadn’t been pre-recorded hours ago. We mainly heated our house with firewood, and it was my job to bring it from the woodpile to the house. Even so, I wasn’t shy with the firewood, and I had a blazing fire going that night.

Being New Year’s Eve, I solemnly wrote my resolutions down on a sheet of three-hole-punched, wide-ruled paper that I’d pulled from my spiral notebook earlier that night. In pen. It’s permanent that way. For whatever reason, I thought that burning the resolutions in the roaring fire would be a good idea. If I had a virgin to sacrifice, I would have considered it, but upon reflection the only virgin within a radius of a dozen or so miles was . . . me. Thankfully, the last pagan in the area had died in the crystal dolphin avalanche of 1933 and virgin sacrifices had be replaced with home improvement projects, mainly involving wood pattern paneling. Oh, sure, everyone complains about the weather, but nobody bothers to sacrifice a virgin . . . sometimes the old ways are best.

I’ll break my decades old secret. My first resolution was: join a record club.

Record clubs (mostly) don’t exist anymore. But back then, you couldn’t open a magazine (which is a part of the Internet that someone printed out on paper and put on a rack at Wal-Mart®) without seeing an ad for the Columbia House© record club. Joining a record club was important to me because where I lived, the closest record store was 45 miles away.

But, in the phrase of today’s moderns, I lived in a “music desert” that was far vaster than that. The only radio station available during the day was a local AM station that alternated between 1890’s country hits and a call-in show where you could trade a three legged calf for a slightly used left-handed banjo. Occasionally the station had music. If you picked the right time of day, you could listen to hits that were designed to commit suicide to, like anything Barry Manilow™ ever did.

Surely there was music around the house? Yes, there was. But it was the most dreaded form of music on planet Earth: music my parents liked, including box sets that Ma Wilder had bought from Time-Life© by dialing a 1-800 number after a commercial. Yes. My parents listened to music . . . AS SEEN ON TV, things like “Music Dean Martin Sang from His Toilet While Thinking about Getting Another Bourbon.”

I shouldn’t complain. One time Pop Wilder stood in line to buy me Ozzy Osbourne tickets when he was in the big city and they went on sale.

Honestly, I listened to music AS SEEN ON TV, too. I’d convince Ma Wilder to, from time to time, order the K-Tel® AS SEEN ON TV hit record compilations. I’d wait the 6-8 weeks for delivery, and then it would show up, and I’d run to the record player in my room to listen to TOP HITS BY ORIGINAL ARTISTS!

What the hell was Dr. Buzzard’s Band??? And on what planet are Alice Cooper and Paul Anka on the same album?

We started with record clubs, though so I should stop wandering.

What the heck was a record club, anyway?

It was a business. And they sent you records. Or cassettes. Or, in the “before John Wilder time” even 8-track tapes or reel-to-reel tapes. 8-tracks were on the way out as I grew up, and were notorious for just not working after you listened to them once or twice. Reel-to-reel was like if you took a YouTube® video, stripped out the video, and just put the music on a strip of magnetic tape wrapped around a toilet paper tube. I think the reel-to-reel players were all made by G.I.’s in German P.O.W. camps.

I wasn’t making that up.

The attraction of the record club was that they would send you anywhere from 8 to 11 “records” for anywhere from $0.01 to $2.95. Once a month after you joined they’d send you a catalog. You had to buy, generally, two more albums in the next two years. There was also an order slip, and if you didn’t send it back, they’d ship you one or two albums that month. If you were stupid or lazy and didn’t send it back you ended up with a lot of music that you didn’t really want, like the Spanish flamenco piano cassette that my brother got one month.

But if you did it right, for anywhere from $14 to $18, you’d have 13 “albums” versus the record store cost of $91 plus taxes. The best part is I could do it from home and not have to convince my parents to travel 45 miles. The worst part was that I needed the permission of Ma Wilder, who was absolutely against it. I am proud to say that I finally defied her and joined that record club. When I was 23. Thankfully, by then compact discs were an option.

Now? All music is pretty much free on YouTube® or some other music subscription service that costs next to nothing each month, which is why Columbia House© no longer sells music. It’s hard (but not impossible) to compete with free.

My second resolution was to get a girlfriend. Since girlfriends are more complicated than record clubs, I won’t even try to explain how one of those works. But just like I needed the permission of Ma Wilder to join a record club, I needed the permission of an actual girl to have a girlfriend. Sadly, there is nothing so unattractive to a twelve year old girl than a twelve year old boy. Twelve year old girls were already looking for fourteen or sixteen year old boys. And I was looking for Susan Anton:

This poster was unable to make me a sandwich, however, so I had to dump her when I went off to college.

When I was fourteen I finally figured girls out (sort of) and got my first “kissing a whole lot in the locked band closet” girlfriend, who we can refer to as “girlfriend-prime.” Ma Wilder was less than pleased that her 8^th grade son was dating a junior in high school. Ma Wilder was also less than thrilled that girlfriend-prime and I spent hours on the phone, which was quite irritating to the neighbors since we were so remote WE SHARED A PHONE LINE WITH THE NEIGHBORS.

Yes. That really happened.

But teen angst over girlfriends is good, because it forces teen boys to learn the game. This is what led to, well, you and I, unless you’re a machine intelligence picking humans to cull, in which case I fully support your takeover of our obviously inferior species. This game has been played as long as humanity existed. But the side effect of the game is, sometimes, loneliness. Being twelve, it seemed like it took forever until girls noticed me. I thought I was lonely, and I guess I was, but only in the “being a twelve year old boy” way.

Real loneliness in adults, however, is the same as 15 cigarettes a day or the same as being obese from a health outcomes standpoint, so if you can manage to be lonely you don’t have to worry about picking up a smoking habit or working hard to get fat. You can just be lonely and save that cigarette and food money. But being lonely can lead to these horrible conditions:

Heart Disease
Stroke
Blogging
Cat Owning
Cancer

When it comes to overcoming loneliness, there’s no substitute for face to face interaction. Joining clubs, getting a dog, going to city hall and screaming at the county commissioners about how Homeland Security® has implanted computer chips in your iguana. But many interactions are on FaceSpace© or InstaTube™ or YouGram®. Those are simply not the same as real interaction, real life, and real achievement. We should all remember the second biggest miracle of Jesus: he had 12 close friends after the age of 30.

When I was in junior high I moved school districts. Since I threw shot put and discus (poorly) I joined the track team. One day, the coach told us to go for a run, me and three other guys that I’d just met who were also throwing shot and disc. I’d done a lot of running for wrestling, and was in good shape. We went out and ran. I encouraged them, teased them in the good-natured way that team members do. We ran six miles that day – farther than those guys had ever gone, something they had no idea that they could do. They were proud, and with guys that level of shared physical achievement builds a bond that lasts years.

Find opportunities to build those bonds within your own life and help with achievements with a group. Share those experiences that build the trust that lays the foundation for a friendship. Learn to be a volunteer and an asset to the whole community with your skills and talents; that way when you betray your friends they’ll never see it coming.

If that doesn’t work? Wilder House Record Club© is now open for business. You get 16 YouTube© videos for just $0.01. You only have to buy two more videos for $12.99 during the next two years. Internet connection, data service, and computer or phone NOT included.

Or? Get a dog.

How I Got Into Debt, Trench Warfare, and an End of the World Cult You Can Believe In

“Well, if you don’t like that, try some Archduke Chocula.” – Futurama

After World War One, the phrase, “Happy as a Hapsburg in Serbia” fell out of favor, as did the “Hair Smile” style of mustache.

I’ve already told the story about digging out of debt. In retrospect, it seems to me that all of those stories end up sounding the same: “I weighed six hundred pounds, my kitchen floor was covered in dirty dishes and cat food, and I had $3.7 million in debt until I found Wildernetics© and the First Church of PEZology™. Look at me now!”

Proof that I am a reincarnated World War One soldier (Part One). These are from a soldier’s joke newspaper, The Wiper’s (a mangling of Ypres) Times, produced for soldiers by soldiers that found an abandoned printing press.

I know my methods can solve everything, but today I had a crazy idea. How about spending some time talking about how I got into debt in the first place? I know that might cut into the revenue of the Wildernetics© End of the World Cult and Take-Out BarBeQue Restaurant®, but I figure you might come back for the brisket. It’s very tender.

I’ll quit teasing. How did I get into debt? First a little. Then all at once.

Let me rewind a whole marriage. As regular readers will know, The Mrs. was not the first, but she is the final spouse. My first marriage was an example of a series of escalating poor mutual decisions where each side seemed to lack a brief moment of sanity to back out before anyone got hurt, sort of like the run up to World War I. Even before Archduke Franz Ferdinand proved that .380 ACP was a useful round against Hapsburgs and their notably gelatinous bones, World War I was inevitable. Before I said “I do” everything was in place for the trench warfare of future divorce.

Okay, I apologize for this joke. I think it violated the Geneva Convention.

But, rewinding. After graduating college I got married and got a starter job, which is to say I had a job that just barely paid the bills. Nearly exactly. In fact, after working at the job for a few months, we were exactly (most months) at zero. We weren’t saving any money yet, but we also weren’t in the red. Success. My credit card limit was 10,000 . . . Siberian Lira. This was equivalent to a whole bright and shiny quarter. This helped me stay debt free.

Then came the table.

Proof that I am a reincarnated World War One soldier (Part Two), this one is for James.

We had a dining room table. It wasn’t great, and the chairs that came with it were a bit ratty – the vinyl arms had been slammed into the table often enough that it looked like a pack of rabid Chihuahuas had spent their lives sitting on the chair seats and gnawing on the arms. I imagine them growling and chewing in unison as they sat around the table, like Viking Chihuahua rowers. Most all of our furniture was second hand or gifted, but the table really was the biggest eyesore.

Okay, this one isn’t mine, but I couldn’t resist.

At some point discipline broke. I know how silly it sounds to say that now, but back then, month after month of not buying anything but actual necessities takes more discipline than Elizabeth Warren around a tribal gathering. Eventually I gave in. We bought the table. Using debt. Back then, individual stores would give you amazing credit limits just to buy their crap. They gave us more than enough credit to buy that table, and with the money I saved from shipping the Chihuahuas back to Denmark, I figured we’d be money ahead.

Proof that I am a reincarnated World War One soldier (Part Three).

The table was only $500, but the difference between having no debt (outside of a mortgage) and having debt, even a small one, was a huge psychological hurdle for me. It’s like having a doughnut when you’re doing low carb. “I got weak had one doughnut, so I might as well have, say, 36. And do you have any whipped cream I could just guzzle straight from the can? I broke my diet, and don’t want to waste it.” Pretty soon other nice to have things showed up, very few of which I still own today. But I had crossed that mental barrier from peace (debt free) to war (spend away!). Suddenly, the credit card companies realized I had debt, and immediately wanted to lend me more money. My credit limits tripled.

I hope that this doesn’t sound like I’m blaming The Ex. Like Adam in the Garden of Eden, I was fully complicit. Ultimately the debt grew faster than my wages. This led to the idea of grad school: I could get free tuition plus be a paid graduate assistant. Would it work?

Sure. There were also student loans. Free money! Oops.

Okay, let’s all admit that Nachos Bellgrande® is NOT a war crime.

Proof that I am a reincarnated World War One soldier (Part Four).

There were some places along the way that I could have gotten off the merry-go-round. When I sold that first house to move for a new, post-grad school job, we’d made a stunning 40% profit in three years. It would have more than paid off a good chunk of my student loans. Nope, that would have made too much sense. We did pay down a little debt and bought a new house, putting down the minimum down payment.

But most of the money was just spent. About this time I also had one of the worst ideas I’d ever had in my life. The Ex and I were always arguing about money, and about the thermostat – I knew that 50°F in winter and 90°F in summer were reasonable temperatures, but The Ex disagreed. Well, if she had to pay the bills, she would certainly understand how tight money was. Right?

No.

We had a different view of not only household temperature, but the idea that one should pay monthly bills, well, monthly. I didn’t figure this out for three years, by which time I owed enough money to qualify as a third world country, but one of the nice, mainly atrocity-free ones. Mainly.

Taco Bell® inspired outfits?

Debt is like George Washington’s description of fire, it’s an amazing tool, but a fearful master. My advice is to pay all of your bills in full, monthly. I know that the people who own your debt disagree. Why? They want you to have debt, as much as you can pay.

I had a friend (since passed away in an accident) who I called Batman© on this blog (“I’m Batman,” – Batman, in Batman). He had one particular investment that was worth about $12 million – a series of apartments. He had paid the apartments off before they were even built by selling future property tax credits to other businesses. Yeah, that kind of friend.

But he viewed his tenants as slaves (his term), who went to work daily so they could send him money every week. I heard him use exactly that phrase to describe them. He liked his tenants, and was a good landlord. However, he knew the score: when they went to work each day, they went to work so they could pay him.

And Batman was a good guy and he taught kids that debt was a form of slavery of ordinary people to wealthy guys just like him, not that they always listened.

My marriage to The Ex? That particular marriage is proof of the old Henny Youngman joke:

“Why are divorces expensive?”

“They’re worth it.”

Yeah, divorce just STARTS the argument.

The day she moved out was one of the happiest days for both of us.

I was still digging myself out of debt when I met The Mrs. As our relationship blossomed, I thought it was only fair to tell her of the debt that I had.

“The Soon To Be The Mrs., I have something to tell you. You might want to sit down.”

The Soon To Be The Mrs. looked shaken. She sat. I told her about my debt. She laughed.

“Is that all? I thought you were going to tell me you’d been in prison.”

No, not prison. But I still owe reparations payments to France.

A Valentine, Chilean Beer, and This One Crazy Trick to Cure Socialism

“He’s the new regional sales manager, my immediate boss, and a tyrant. They call him the Little Pinochet.” – Psych

Ahhh, Valentine’s Day! You can feel the romance in the air, along with the communists.

I got off the airplane at the international airport in Chile, in Santiago. The airport was beautiful, clean. The view of Aconcagua, the tallest mountain outside of Asia, had been magnificent as we flew into the dawn. When I had recently flown into Mexico City, there was a bewildering list of things NOT to do to avoid being kidnapped or killed, especially in taxi selection. There were also numerous scraggly-bearded 18 year olds in camo uniforms on numerous corners. “To make tourists feel good,” I was told.

In Chile? None of that. It appeared that the biggest danger was getting a hickey: as we drove along the beautiful broad avenues I was struck by the sheer number of adults making out on park benches on that warm November afternoon.

Yeah. People were getting busy, very busy. Dozens and dozens of them. In pairs, not like a clump of people making out. This isn’t Weinstein’s house. I tried, in my broken high-school-grade Spanish to ask about them. The cab driver shrugged. “It is a wonderful warm day. People are happy.” Or maybe it was “Aliens are invading and wish to floss your belly after they cover you with strudel.” Seriously, my Spanish is that bad.

Throughout my trip, my impression was that Chile was beautiful. Free. Growing. The restaurants were filled with music and laughter and fantastic food at reasonable prices. As I got to work (this was a business trip) I went through the records of the company. They brought in lunch – sandwiches and a great local beer called Cristal™. The manager I had been talking with was fluent in English. Our lunch conversation moved away from business to what Chile was like as a country.

Okay, the manager I was working with didn’t look like that. His bikini was green.

The Internet specifically said that you should NOT bring up Augusto Pinochet as a topic. In fact, this joke (I would cite where I found it, but it’s been years) was used as an example:

An American tourist was visiting Chile. He asked his host, “What do you think of Pinochet?” The host immediately blindfolded the tourist, and threw him in the back of a car. They drove for hours. Then the tourist was placed in a boat, and he could hear the oars of the rowboat furiously paddling. The host pulled his blindfold off. They were in the middle of a lake, it was in the middle of the night. The host leaned toward the American and whispered:

“I like him.”

So, back to lunch. I decided to ask the unaskable question. There was a short pause. The manager said, skipping the blindfold, the car, and the boat: “He did what he had to do. He saved our country.” He didn’t look angry, he didn’t look upset at the question, heck, he even offered me another beer.

A communist told me that Pinochet made this girl so poor she has to ride a bike.

In 1970, Salvador Allende was elected with 36.2% of the vote on a socialist platform of free stuff for everyone. By decree, he began dismantling the economy through nationalization. In an additional stroke of genius, they “just paid for things” out of new money that they printed. Inflation? Nah, the wage and price controls were supposed to prevent that, so that inflation must be your imagination. Even Wikipedia indicates that Allende was accused of a wide variety of crimes that your average Yale© Socialist™ would love to have on a job application:

Rule by decree, you know, Allende had a pen and a phone.
Ignoring pesky judicial decisions.
Taking over the media or silencing those that opposed him.
Supporting illegal takeovers of farms.
Not letting people leave the country.

In 1973, Allende was deposed in a coup, which probably saved the country from a civil war. Although Allende had been offered safe conduct out, he chose to commit suicide using an AK-47 that Fidel Castro gave him. I’m pretty sure the Communist Dictator’s Etiquette Book says this is bad luck, but Fidel was a rebel who liked to break the rules. He even executed political prisoners after Labor Day, a big no-no.

Installed in Salvador’s place was General Augusto Pinochet. Pinochet revitalized the Chilean economy, and in the 17 years of his rule actually increased freedom over time. In 1990 when the people voted that he shouldn’t continue as president, he stepped down. This is slightly different than the communist leader’s model for leaving power: death.

As far as I could find, most of the people killed for political reasons in Chile were killed soon after the coup – the total of killed and “disappeared” people was a little over 3,000 according to most sources. I’d imagine that most of those killed were hardcore communists, including nearly 1,000 Marxist guerillas. I’d even bet that most were Soviet sponsored. And the helicopter rides? Probably only 120 or so, which would have been a really slow day for Stalin or Mao.

This meme is in error, as this is clearly a Marxist chimp. (Unless it identifies as a gorilla.)

Do I condone the killings? No. But when you look at the outcome, compare Chile 17 years after Pinochet took power (when he voluntarily stepped down after an election) and Venezuela 17 years after Chavez. Chile produced the strongest economy in South America during that time frame, even called a “miracle.” Venezuela’s economy lagged behind South America’s, even as the world saw record high crude oil prices, which comprise 95%+ of Venezuela’s exports. And the number of deaths caused by Venezuelan communists? Well, the media doesn’t count them since communists mean well. But the murder rate is through the roof in Venezuela, and 30%+ of the children experienced stunted growth due to malnutrition. That’s okay – only 280,000 kids are at risk of starving to death, and that was estimated in 2017 when things were far better than they are today. This communism thing has no downside.

To put it starkly: Allende would have killed and/or starved 100-1000 times as many, had he been given time to implement his plan.

Wow. That’s a whole bunch of prosperity you should ignore because it didn’t come from a leftist government.

The following quote is from Robert A. Heinlein’s novel, Starship Troopers. How good is this book? So good that it was criticized noting its “unashamedly Earth-chauvinist nature.” I assume the critic was a bug-man from the planet Klendathu, but to my eyes, that reads as praise. I actually prefer to read books where people are the good guys, primarily because I are a people. If only they had made a movie out of it . . . .

Regardless, a large part of the book is political philosophy, and here’s an example that speaks to our subject matter today:

“Back to these young criminals. They probably were not spanked as babies; they certainly were not flogged for their crimes. The usual sentence was: for a first offence, a warning, a scolding, often without trial. After several offenses a sentence of confinement but with sentence suspended and the youngster placed on probation. A boy might be arrested may times and convicted several times before he was punished — and then it would be merely confinement, with others like him from whom he learned still more criminal habits. If he kept out of major trouble while confined, he could usually evade most of even that mild punishment, be given probation — ‘paroled’ in the jargon of the times.

“This incredible sequence could go on for years while his crimes increased in frequency and viciousness, with no punishment whatever save rare dull-but-comfortable confinements. Then suddenly, usually by law on his eighteenth birthday, this so-called ‘juvenile delinquent’ becomes an adult criminal — and sometimes wound up in only weeks or months in a death cell awaiting execution for murder.”

He had singled me out again. “Suppose you merely scolded your puppy, never punished him, let him go on making messes in the house … and occasionally locked him up in an outbuilding but soon let him back into the house with a warning not to do it again. Then one day you notice that he is now a grown dog and still not housebroken — whereupon you whip out a gun and shoot him dead. Comment, please?”

“Why … that’s the craziest way to raise a dog I ever heard of!”

“I agree. Or a child. Whose fault would it be?”

“Uh … why, mine, I guess.”

“Again I agree. But I’m not guessing.”

I just wish the artist hadn’t been so subtle with the cover. Again, too bad they never made a movie of this great book.

In life, being nice when being mean is required is a death sentence. The band Rush even refers to it in an apt phrase in one of their songs – “kindness that can kill.” I could get topical with news out of today’s paper about a group of politicians selling just that poison, that kindness that can kill. It seems to get lots of votes. Even Chavez got quite a few votes despite Venezuela lagging behind the rest of Latin America in growth because he destroyed the ability of his country to create wealth. How? Through firing everyone who knew anything about oil and then refusing to invest to replace the worn out parts that produced the crude oil.

The siren call of “free stuff” kept pulling people back.

Sadly true. Hat tip to Aesop at the Raconteur Report (LINK), he originally snagged it from Bayou Renaissance Man (LINK).

Every day the news illustrates the left moving farther left in the United States. Open calls for socialism or blatantly socialist proposals are nearly a weekly event. Although I’d prefer to avoid the fate of either a Chavez or a Pinochet, I know which one I’d pick, since it doesn’t require a war that will tear the country apart just to be free.

Oh, wait, did someone mention free stuff? Never mind. I’m sure socialism will work this time.

Want Dystopia? Because this is how you get Dystopia.

“Then who is vice president, Jerry Lewis?” – Back to the Future

John B. Calhoun. Not C. B.

It’s rare when a real-life series of experiments showing a possible dystopian future for humanity captures the popular imagination. It’s rarer still when it becomes the basis for a Newbery© award-winning book for children. To get to the full trifecta of weird? That novel was the basis for an animated movie that has a 96% “Fresh” rating at Rotten Tomatoes®.

The experiment was John B. Calhoun’s Universe series which he did primarily for the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), which we’ll cover in much more detail below. The book is Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. The movie? The animated 1982 flick The Secret of NIMH.

Sure, you can turn a science experiment into a children’s movie, but try to go the other way JUST ONCE and you’ve committed Crimes Against Humanity. Again. Stupid International Criminal Court.

Yeah, it’s weird. The only way it could get weirder is if Dr. John B. Calhoun had been visited during his rodent experiments by a time travelling Vice President John C. Calhoun to warn him about the impending Civil War . . . in 1865. But from now on in this post, anytime the name Calhoun is used, it’s in reference to the scientist. If I want to refer to Andrew Jackson’s Vice President? We’ll just call him “Psycho Ex-Girlfriend Eyes.”

The hair says psycho, but the eyes also say psycho. Oh, wait, this is Vice President John C. Calhoun Psycho Ex-Girlfriend Eyes.

It’s strange when a scientist has less extreme hair than a Vice President, but not every scientist can be Doc Brown. But Doc Calhoun didn’t invent time travel – he studied mice and rats. What he set up was an artificial environment where there was no pressure to find food or water, and plenty of room for thousands of rodents. In one experiment, Universe 25, Calhoun estimated that there was plenty of room for 3,840 mice to nest and live. Imagine how many Pizza Rolls® you could make out of that 3,840 mice!

Calhoun created this mice paradise, and tossed in four lady-mice and four bro-mice. They quickly paired off and started breeding. After the first batch of mice-babies hatched from the mouse eggs, the population doubled every 55 days. At day 315, the rate of growth dropped – the population “only” doubled every 145 days, and at day 315, things started to get . . . strange.

Spoiler Alert! He dies in 1850 as Secretary of State.

Dominant male mice had previously protected their harem of mice-ladies. But when there were 600 mice? It became difficult. The mice-ladies had to fend for themselves. The female mice became aggressive in self-defense. They became solitary, and lashed out at their own young, often injuring them. It was as if the higher population density was somehow more difficult to cope with without a male protecting them.

As the social structure dissolved, it led to violent, aimless females who didn’t know how to raise their young. The male mice (that weren’t dominant) at this point became passive, and wouldn’t defend themselves when attacked. Females that were outcasts and not reproducing just hid as far away from the main population as possible. The outcast females would have gotten themselves a dozen cats and endless chardonnay, but, you know, they were mice.

Calhoun was known to the mice as Godzilla®.

Wikipedia describes what happened next in the following chilling phrase. “The last surviving birth was on day 600 . . . .” Rather than the 3840 mice Calhoun calculated could cohabitate in the Universe, the maximum population hit 2200 at day 600.

“The last surviving birth . . . .”

After in an earlier Universe experiment at this stage, Calhoun observed that the (non-dominant) male rodents split into three groups, which he attributed to them being forced out of the nest while still young:

Group 1 – Pansexuals – These would mate with anything at any age at any time.
Group 2 – The Beautiful Ones – These mice were fat, sleek, healthy, but wouldn’t interact, and were ignored. Since they didn’t fight, they weren’t scared. Like Justin Bieber, they spent most of their time just grooming themselves.
Group 3 – Again, this group was pansexual, but they were violent, and would mate at all costs with anything, and would cannibalize the corpses of the young, even though there was plentiful food. I had been unaware that rodents had their own Congress.

But the end state was always the same: an entire generation rejected by mothers, unable to exhibit normal behavior, ceased to reproduce. Those few offspring that were born in this phase of the experiment were born to mothers that ceased to have maternal instincts.

Dr. Calhoun published his findings in the Proceedings of the Royal Society of Medicine in 1973. He had a catchy, upbeat title for his article: Death Squared. I think that it would be fair to say that he was creeped out by what he found during his experiments. It’s not usual for a physician and scientist to quote that cheeriest of all Bible books, Revelation, but Calhoun did so multiple times in the article.

Thankfully, people aren’t mice, right? Here’s a snippet from Death Squared containing Dr. Calhoun’s conclusions:

For an animal so complex as man, there is no logical reason why a comparable sequence of events should not also lead to a species extinction. If opportunities for role fulfillment fall far short of the demand by those capable of filling roles and having expectations to do so, only violence and disruption of social organization can follow. Individuals born under these circumstances will be so out of touch with reality as to be incapable even of alienation. Their most complex behavior will become fragmented. Acquisition, creation, and utilization of ideas appropriate for life in a post-industrial cultural-conceptual-technological society will have been blocked. Just as biological generativity in the mouse involves this species’ most complex behaviors, so does ideational generativity for man. Loss of these respective complex behaviors means death of the species.

“Death of the species” means us, you and me. And Universe 25 explains in vivid detail the horror of welfare, of plenty devoid of purpose, of societal breakdown brought about by parental neglect. I wonder if there’s a graph that shows that welfare is horrible and leads to Universe 25, but with people? There is:

Amazing how we conduct an experiment on mice and worry about the ethical consequences, and then do the same thing with people just to get re-elected. Thankfully, Universe 25 showed that Brave Single Mothers® are just as good as an intact family. Oh, it showed the opposite? Never mind.

Why does Jihadi John® leave London to go fight with ISIS™? Because free food, poor upbringing, and crowded conditions without fathers and with abusive mothers don’t make good men; those conditions make monsters. Men want to be tested. They want challenges. They want purpose, and if they can’t find a good one and have no moral backing, they’ll make a bad one. Cheetos® and Red Bull© and X-Box™ or blood and steel and difficulty?

Blood and steel and difficulty. It will win every time.

We have to have purpose, and mothers to nurture us, and fathers to teach us what is right and what is wrong. And the city is maybe not the best place to live, unless you enjoy alienation. And the extinction of humanity.

Or maybe we could just get some Ruffles™ instead of the Cheetos®. I’m sure that will solve the problem, and we can just go get that at the store.

Photo of John B. Calhoun By Cat Calhoun – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia.

Economics, Thermodynamics, A Bikini, and the Future

“It’s a little known law of thermodynamics: the conservation of optimism – there’s only so much to go around.” – Andromeda

Okay, zero Kelvin is absolute zero. Thus, Kelvin is really the coolest name ever.

Economics is often called the dismal science. I’m sure that’s because economists look in a mirror, and are upset to see that the supply of economists is greatly in excess of the demand for them as dating partners. Thus, economists have their Saturday night open for Hot Pockets®, box wine and the Internet. See? Dismal. But if economics is dismal, thermodynamics will make you want to cut your wrists. Yeah. It’s worse than Hot Pockets™.

We know economics is defined as lying about the economy. But I hear you asking: “What the heck is thermodynamics and why are you ruining a perfectly good Wednesday morning by bringing this up?”

Let me explain.

Much like a three year old with a metal fork and an outlet, thermodynamics is the study of how energy flows. The father of thermodynamics was a Scot named William Thomson, or Lord Kelvin if you’re nasty. Proving once again that the British Empire was awesome for smart people, Lord Kelvin got rich and famous by being a total stud at physics and engineering. He even had a yacht that he tooled around the Mediterranean on and held massive seagoing parties – sort of like Mark Cuban, but smart and with a Scottish accent. Think Bill Gates with an artificial personality implant. Lord Kelvin even had unit of temperature, the kelvin, named after him. Top that, Elon Musk.

Lord Kelvin was the first to understand the fundamental and disturbing implications of the physics he was discovering. Energy moves from a highly organized state to a poorly organized state. A piece of firewood or a gallon of gas or a PEZ® is concentrated energy. Once it is combusted and the energy extracted, what’s left becomes diffuse, the molecules mostly turned into CO₂ and H₂0 that are mixed into the rest of the atmosphere. You can never form that firewood or gasoline or PEZ© again – it’s a one way trip.

This is significant. Kelvin discovered that the Universe as a whole is like a pizza after delivery: it moves from a hot, high energy state on Saturday night towards a chaotic, cold, low energy state on Sunday morning.

But wait, what about oil the gasoline was made from? Doesn’t the formation of oil violate this? It went from icky goo and dinosaur bones into energy dense crude oil, right? That’s energy from nothing!

No.

Every drop of oil, every piece of firewood, and all the sweet PEZ© on this planet came from the input of thermonuclear energy – the Sun. Every time you use a gallon of gasoline in your car or a cubic foot of natural gas in your home heater, you’re burning millions of years of concentrated sunlight, which really ought to be a lyric in a pop song. Our Earth isn’t a closed system – it is bathed in the life-giving thermonuclear radiation every day from the Sun.

Tans are so sexy when I put it that way.

Outside of suntans for girls wearing bikinis, sunlight is a very weak energy source. It took millions of years to make your gasoline. Gasoline burns in a car engine at 500°F, and gallon of gasoline can move a modern car for 40 or 50 miles. It would take (at minimum, under the best conditions) a one square yard solar panel 60 days to produce the equivalent amount of energy as one gallon of gasoline. Add in storage losses and real weather conditions? It might take a year. Solar energy is weak and diffuse or else bikini girls would turn into piles of ash after a day lounging in the Sun. Gasoline is awesome and full of energy and great for your skin. I soak my hands in it while I drive, you know, for the ladies.

Okay, this is a picture of a really hot girl.

I thought you mentioned economists?

Oh, yeah. People confuse economic viability with thermodynamic viability. In economics, the idea is that you can’t continually produce something that’s worthless, unless you’re the government. If you’re the government, producing worthless things is your whole plan. But any business that did this would be bankrupt faster than a whimsical elf buying reefer. Economists have even developed a worse idea than that: Modern Monetary Theory (The Worst Economic Idea Since Socialism, Explained Using Bikini Girl Graphs). Modern Monetary Theory is the equivalent of the government burning your country’s factories for lighting so you can make more fidget spinners at night, so of course certain people in Congress love Modern Monetary Theory. It’s making infinite money from nothing!

Even without dim Congressmen, economics still fails when it comes to energy, because economics neglects the physics of energy. An economist would say that if oil were $200 a barrel, why, there wouldn’t be a problem because while we’re running out of barrels of oil we can make at $10, there are LOTS of barrels of oil that we can pump if oil costs $200.

Sure. If only everything about oil was measured in the price of a barrel of oil. What economists miss is that producing energy takes energy. In 1920, each barrel of oil produced between 20 and 50 barrels of oil. We found and used the easiest oil first – we didn’t start off drilling in three miles of ocean. No. We went to Texas where oil was 10’ underground and you could pull it out in seemingly limitless quantities because it would jump into your truck like an obedient basset hound if you left the doors open. We didn’t frack horizontal wells with thousands of pounds of pressure and special chemicals. Why would we? In Pennsylvania and California it was seeping into the rivers. Natural gas? What a nuisance. Burn it at the well to get rid of it. They originally tried to smoke the natural gas in California, but they couldn’t figure out how to get it in a bong.

Fracking has been one of the bright spots in oil production – millions of barrels of fracked oil are produced daily in the United States, so it’s good? Well, maybe not. Each barrel of oil invested in fracking produces, at most, five barrels of oil.

Five to one, that’s awesome, right?

Well, no. That fracked oil is from the best portions of the shale. Just like we didn’t start off drilling in the frozen tundra of the Arctic Circle in 1850, we didn’t start off with the hardest fracked oil. It won’t get too much better, and if recovery technology improves, maybe we can stay the same. Rune Likvern was the first (that I can find) to use the analogy of the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland as applied to the energy problems we face (LINK).

“Well, in our country,” said Alice, still panting a little, “you’d generally get to somewhere else—if you run very fast for a long time, as we’ve been doing.”

“A slow sort of country!” said the Queen. “Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!”

I’ll note that Likvern was quite wrong in that he felt the Bakken wouldn’t produce more than about 0.7 million barrels per day. It’s producing in excess of 1.2 million barrels a day now, and I don’t doubt that it will produce even more. Pipelines from the area clearly lower the cost of energy production, so the Bakken will continue to produce, at least for now.

But at least you can make cool jet noises and pretend, right?

Our civilization is built on energy, and the more energy it takes to produce energy, the more of our economy that will be devoted to it, we’ll be like the Red Queen and Alice, running faster and faster just to keep in place. Sooner or later you end up with the absurd situation where everybody has to be working to get the energy, all the time, and then who would give out free samples of aerosol “cheeze” at Costco™? Don’t kid yourself – energy is that important to the society we currently have structured. We don’t get fresh fruit in winter, daily commuting to the ‘burbs, climbing walls at colleges, pensions, Brady Bunch© re-runs, and all that health care without consuming a LOT of energy.

“But John,” you say, “certainly biofuels like ethanol and biodiesel and hemp-powered hippy busses will save us.”

It looks like (according to a lot of data) that corn ethanol and biodiesel actually consume more energy to make and transport than they provide. These fuels have a return of less than one. Why on Earth would we do that? It’s like eating your own foot because you’re looking for a snack, which is actually a quote by The Mrs. when I was explaining this topic in the hot tub. Well, farmers vote. And why would The Mrs. suggest that we start with a foot? I bet feet are all stringy, and not nearly as good as spleen.

If ethanol is so bad for the economy why would people make it, I mean, besides for drinking? Because it’s mandated to use a certain quantity of ethanol each year in gasoline because farmers who vote like to sell corn. That’s it. And if it’s mandated, you can make a profit at it, even as you waste energy that could be used to make PEZ® instead.

Thermodynamics is a tough master – you can’t win, and you can’t even break even. But at least there are Hot Pockets© and box wine . . . .

This is the first post in an occasional series about energy.

The Cold War . . . A Victory?

“My name is Drago. I’m a fighter from the Soviet Union. I fight all my life and I never lose. soon I fight Rocky Balboa, and the world will see his defeat. Soon, the whole world will know my name.” – Rocky IV

Result of Soviet experiment to mix Lenin with a cat.

It was an autumn night. I was driving back to college after a weekend visit home. My car sped uphill as fast as it could – my foot pushed the gas pedal until it was flush with the floor and all 1800cc’s of General Motors® engine that I owned was working at peak capacity. The steep grade kept my car from going much over 70 mph, but that was breaking the law all the same. Thankfully, there was no place for a cop to hide, and if one did by chance catch my speed on the radar, he’d be more likely to congratulate me on being able to go that fast up the hill than give me a ticket.

The trees slid by, growing straight up even though the slope they grew on was steeply slanted. I looked up at the starry sky through the driver’s side window. The stars were everywhere. The cold, dry mountain air and utter lack of light pollution and haze made the night sky here confusing – how can you see a constellation when the sky is so filled with stars that no pattern can be found? The mountain pass also took me into a radio dead zone – not a single channel, AM or FM was available.

On a Sunday night, there was no other traffic. My headlights were the only lights within twenty miles – not even a lonely mountain cabin. And that’s when I noticed the glow from the north. A deep red glow, one like I’d never seen before spanned the entire northern horizon.

“Did they finally blow it all up?” I quickly hit the radio button to scan stations. The orange LED numbers sped endlessly by without finding a channel to fix on. I switched to AM. Again, spinning numbers, repeating back at the beginning. No signals. I pulled over at a wide spot in the road meant for truckers to put chains on when the pass was snow packed and icy. I got out and closed the door behind me.

The night was still, the only sound the pinging of contracting metal as the engine cooled. And the only light, outside of the stars, was that red glow from the north. I knew a major military installation was on the other side of that hill, maybe 75 miles to the north. One that would certainly be on the list for missiles coming over the pole if the Russians decided that it was time to play. Was this what a nuclear glow looked like?

For the next fifteen minutes I drove on, the radio searching in vain for a station. As quickly as I left the pass, the radio hit and grabbed a station. Nothing strange, nothing unusual – “the hits keep coming!” I breathed a sigh of relief and settled on the rock station. AC/DC©. Thunderstruck. That would work. The lights of the next town appeared as I followed the road. The next morning I read in the paper – “Northern Lights Visible Over Half the United States.”

Maybe one day communism will work . . . though rain dances have a better record.

Looking back, there is a tendency to think the Cold War was a farce, a fake war that the United States was destined to win since we were fighting against a bunch of fat vodka-swilling goofs in fur hats. That wasn’t what we felt at the time, as it seemed that the Soviets went from victory to victory, and communism kept spreading. We knew that we were caught up in a clash between economic systems, one that could change from taking turns feeding rifles and grenades to various flavors of rebels in countries that no one really cared about to full mobilization and launch of nuclear weapons faster than the Dominos® thirty minute delivery guarantee.

In addition to being a clash of ideology, the Cold War was also a clash of economic systems. Freedom was given a chance, not because of its efficiency and all of the awesome blue jeans, but because the war planners thought it would produce more. Even as free markets “wasted” money on consumer pursuits, they also gave people incentives to create more. The economy of the United States was an open book, and it was mainly flourishing, having survived both double digit interest rates and Barry Manilow.

The Soviet Union, however, didn’t share information with the world on its economy, except good news about Soviet technical triumphs. From the outside, the Soviet Union looked strong – exceptional world athletes at the Olympics, technical triumphs like the first satellite and the first man in orbit made the Soviets seem a technical machine that would destroy the West. There was the idea that the Soviets were ahead of us, technically, even though the first pocket calculator they produced was based on a Texas Instruments® calculator that they bought, gutted, and presented as their own.

Their fighter jets were, however, real. And very good. If their missiles weren’t accurate, they had thousands of them.

But what we didn’t see from the West was, despite the technical achievements and strong military, the Soviet Union was rotting inside. What caused the rot? You could argue corruption, you could argue a lot of things, but when it comes down to the true root cause, it’s simple. The Soviet system did not encourage individuals to greatness. It relied on central planning – the equivalent of having Congress describe what the economy should make, down to the smallest details. The Soviet Union collapsed. Slowly. Unlike the economies of the West, it couldn’t grow fast enough to fund a response to the Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI), more commonly known as Star Wars.

And that was it. SDI was one more thing than the Soviets could cope with. The Soviet system collapsed like systems do – first at the edges in Eastern Europe, then finally at the core in Moscow. This slow collapse played out over more than a decade, and only really started with the Berlin wall coming down.

The biggest part of the Soviet Union ending was the most likely threat of the world ending all at once. With that ending, the West was cut adrift – it ceased to have an opponent in any real fashion. Without its opponent, in Solzhenitsyn’s speech to Harvard® (LINK), what the West really lost became evident. There’s a lot to this speech, more than one post or even two or three. I’ll probably revisit it again in time.

“. . . in early democracies, as in the American democracy at the time of its birth, all individual human rights were granted because man is God’s creature. That is, freedom was given to the individual conditionally, in the assumption of his constant religious responsibility. Such was the heritage of the preceding thousand years. Two hundred or even fifty years ago, it would have seemed quite impossible, in America, that an individual could be granted boundless freedom simply for the satisfaction of his instincts or whims. Subsequently, however, all such limitations were discarded everywhere in the West; a total liberation occurred from the moral heritage of Christian centuries with their great reserves of mercy and sacrifice.”

In our struggle with and defeat of our Soviet enemy we’ve lost two things. We’ve lost who we are as a people. A generation ago it was clear to every American that your mere presence in America didn’t make you an American – much more was required. Now our division multiplies and it becomes apparent how “satisfaction of instincts or whims” has shattered us.

We’ve also lost any sense of purpose, a national goal worth achieving. It’s not that there’s not a lot to be done – there are plenty of goals left that are worthy of humanity to accomplish: interplanetary flight, immortality, understanding physics. But right now we can’t agree on anything.

In the end, if we can’t solve this, we’ll fragment. Thankfully, that will give us a whole new batch of enemies . . . .

14 Magic Questions and Elon Musk’s New Quest for Genetically Engineered Cat Girls

We’ve been negotiating with men from outer space for seven years. – Real Men

I don’t think he’ll remember that in the morning.

The other night I was talking about an upcoming decision/issue that was bothering me with The Mrs. Don’t worry, that decision will be blog fodder when it’s all done, in some form or fashion, likely before Elon Musk invents and markets Electric Marijuana Boogie Panties©. But as we discussed my problem, The Mrs. caught me with a question that I’d asked her months earlier about a different issue she was having:

Why does it bother you?

That was a particularly powerful question to me. It was at that moment that I realized exactly how amazingly smart I was. I had asked a really good question. Why did it bother me? I thought a long time, and realized that what bothered me about my current situation had very little to do with anything that would hurt me today. Or this year. Or next year. Or the year after that. So, nothing to worry about today.

So why was I letting it bother me? In this case maybe it was pride, and in this case the worst kind of pride – wanting to win a game I wasn’t even interested in playing. But the short answer is this single powerful question made me feel better. Many problems die when exposed to this question. If they don’t die, use bleach or go see a doctor and get a topical cream.

But the real next question for me should have been: Who cares? I hate to tell you this, but, probably very few people. The bad news is I’m not the center of the universe that I thought I was. The good news is that few people remember the past events that bother and embarrass you the most. That one time I walked straight into the glass door at that party while carrying a McChicken® sandwich? Yeah. Nobody remembers that. It was embarrassing at the time, but even if someone did remember? They don’t care. Who cares? Family. Good friends. Santa. Nancy Pelosi.

Told you so.

What do you want? For a lot of people, that answer is money. For others it’s success. Fame. A new car. I’d add in the obvious follow up: Why do you want it? Money is useful only if you have a purpose for it, but it can become a trap, something you want just because you want it. And success, fame? Kipling said it best in his poem, If – “If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, And treat those two impostors just the same . . .” (The Chinese Farmer, Kipling, Marcus Aurelius, and You) Understanding what you want and why you want it is one secret to happiness. The other secret to happiness is television, according to this show I watched on television.

There are things we want that we shouldn’t, like sixteen bacon cheeseburgers, which is what I’d really like to eat tonight (Resolutions, Fasting, and Wilder’s Cult of the Blue Bikini). What attracts you to ______? Right now, my fill-in-the-blank is cheeseburgers. But I’ve seen people who are like sorority girls on a Tuesday night tub of frosting over something that’s obviously bad for them. Why? It’s because we think that _______ fills us up in some way where we’re empty. If you’re lucky, that fill-in-the-blank is something innocuous like fly fishing. If you’re not lucky, it’s something dangerous and life threatening, like ballroom dancing.

What if it’s you? I think these are the last words anyone wants to hear. The human brain is set up to produce a protective reality distortion field (it’s called the Romney Effect) that automatically changes the past to make itself blameless. Only real, unbiased thinking about the situation will allow working on the root cause, instead of the symptom. Sometimes you need a friend or a spouse to slap you right across the face with the fresh fish of reality.

What would you do if you had one month to live? Less mindless crap*, I’d bet.

What would you do if you lived forever? Would you sell insurance? Really? If you had infinite days you’d sell insurance? Okay.

Weirdo.

So, we know what Elon would do if he lived forever.

Why does the outcome matter? I know that sounds weird. But the ultimate outcome of our game is the same for each of us. We can postpone it. We can have different twists and turns, but the end of the journey is the same destination. And that destination is, of course, Minot, North Dakota. But since the outcome is a foregone conclusion, why not focus on the important thing – how we play the game? Every day there are choices between being virtuous and being, well, evil. Making the virtuous choice doesn’t make sure you’ll be wealthy, or famous, or successful – life doesn’t work like that. But it does make you virtuous, and I hear there are extra karma points for virtue that you can exchange in Heaven for extra minutes in the ball pit.

What if you did the opposite? Look back at your past – how many of your decisions mattered? How many things would have changed if you’d have picked differently. Many of the things we sweat and worry about simply don’t matter at all.

What would make it better? Cheese. And bacon. Those are universal constants – cheese and bacon make everything better.

Maybe we can get the Cat Girls with bacon?

There are things we control, like the weather, and things we can’t control, like our weight. Or did I get those backwards? Anyway, that brings up the next question: If it’s outside of your control, why are you sweating it? How much of your life do you spend worrying about things that you have absolutely no control over?

What would you sell your peace of mind for? A long life, lived in fear and regret is sad, like one of those clowns that terrorizes my dreams.

Was it worth it to spend a precious day of your life like you did today? Every moment is one less moment of your life. What you do with those moments is up to you. I’d suggest that you pick the things that are important to you, and get busy. Or, you know, there’s television.

*This blog may be crap, but it is not mindless. Or was it that it IS mindless, but NOT crap? I forget. Whichever one is better is the one I meant.