Welcome to the Hotel California

 

So I’ve returned from the dead.  And it was a transcendental experience.  Like one of those California, peyote fueled spirit journeys that most of the Eagles indulged in back in the 1970s I faced my demons and have come back with enlightenment.  Or at least, I’m five pounds lighter from profuse sweating.

Yes, I have new insights.  For instance, I’ve discovered that every third news story involves Elon Musk, Twitter and Hunter Biden.  And what I realize is that none of this stuff will move the needle at all.  Now sure, Elon Musk can do a lot of good if he turns Twitter into a meaningful business.  And the first thing he should do is come up with a better name.  Twitter just sounds hopelessly lame.  Musk is a tech guy who makes rocket ships.  He should rename it “Atom Smasher” or “This Island Earth” or something cool like that.  But whatever.  The main thing is he needs to make this expensive toy a money maker and a business opportunity that does something useful.  Telling me about past management shilling for the Democrats is fine but it’s old news.

And all the rest of the news is the Republicans reporting on how hated Joe Biden is and the Democrats reporting on how beloved Joe Biden is.  Not exactly must see tv.  There was a little bit of news coming out of Florida.  DeSantis continues to telegraph his legislative and administrative actions.  And that makes him sound more and more like a 2024 candidate.  And that is problematic.

Hopefully DeSantis is smart enough to recognize that the GOP establishment is setting him up to be the Trump-killer.  And hopefully he realizes that attempting to fulfill that role will make him radioactive to at least twenty percent of the Republican electorate.  That is not a good look for him.  A better idea would be to have a sit down with Trump and thrash out a path forward for both of them.  That’s what grownups would do.  And DeSantis would have to swallow a lot of pride because Trump has already attacked him pretty hard in the last month or so.  Let’s face it Trump is one of the prickliest personalities in the world.  He needs a press secretary whose job should be to prevent him from saying anything about people who could do him some good.

But there’s no way around it.  Unless Trump is imprisoned by the Justice Department, he will be the 2024 Republican candidate for president.  And DeSantis is a very young man.  He’s doing extraordinary work in Florida.  Some might say being the governor of Florida is more powerful that being a Republican president of the United States.  He can continue to make Florida the envy of the nation.  And honestly, being Trump’s running mate would be a much, much better idea.  Since it seems that the Democrats have managed to game the Electoral College permanently there’s not much upside to going to war with Trump to possibly get the nomination but certainly alienate the Trump voters and lose in the general election.

So yes, I’m back and I’m surrounded by boring and stupid stuff as far as the eye can see.  By tomorrow I should be energized back to 75%.  And I’ll be able to opine on some of this dreck.  Today, this is what I could do.  Enjoy your weekend.

photog Bound

The men of my family have an endearing trait.  Whenever we’re sick, even to an almost imperceptible degree we carry on like an antique hero in his death agony and expect our wives to baby us to an unhealthy degree.  Now this week as it happened, Camera Girl is seriously under the weather.  She’s been slowly recovering since Saturday.  Today she’s at 60% and improving.  But today I woke up with muscle aches, possibly a slight fever and a headache.

Ahhh, the perfect malady.  Just bad enough to be recognizably sick but not bad enough to distract me from my act.  So, all day today I’ve been an invalid caterwauling about my aches and pains and the bravery I was demonstrating.  Like the great titan Prometheus, I was shackled to a crag in the Caucasus Mountains (or maybe my recliner in the living room).  I could feel Camera Girl going through the slow burn.  It’s a delicate balance.  If I lay it on too thick, she’s liable to poison me or smother me in my sleep.  But with just the right touch, the day is passed for both of us in a tolerable haze of delirium.

I spent the day watching YouTube videos about artificial elements in the island of stability and mockeries of string theory.  With enough aspirin and turkey soup I almost felt human by dinner time.

But later my fever returned and I descended into madness.  To go along with this mania, I put on a pretty bad prison movie from 1947 called “Brute Force.”  Burt Lancaster is a prisoner who stages a jail break to save his wife from a cancer diagnosis.  The pipsqueak, Hume Cronyn is completely absurd as the sadistic captain of the guards.  But as ridiculous as the movie was it was perfect for my delirium.

When Camera Girl addressed me I started changing my “thems” to “dems” and “these” to “deese.”  Pretty soon I told her that no “twist” was gonna tell me how to run a jail break.  I reminded her that no prison could hold me for long and I added for good measure that no one would take me alive.

Eventually I passed out from a combination of malaise and bad acting.  When I woke up a mortally wounded Lancaster tossed Cronyn from the guard tower to the mob below who tore him apart.  Ahhh, those were the days.  No transgender prisoners, no pronouns, just good old prison justice for stool pigeons and screws, see?

Now I’m wrapped up like a mummy trying to keep from getting the shakes.  I think I’m done with bad movies for the day.  I’ll put on some country music and try to sleep my way through the worst of this.  Funny thing is Camera Girl now seems genuinely concerned with my health.  There’s a word in Italian that means pity; peccato.  Of course, in the dialect that Camera Girl’s people spoke back in the old country it was pronounced like “pea-cod.”  Well, my pathetic weakness and whining have finally broken through and I’m garnering the attention and peccato I so richly deserve.  I win again!

My hope is that I’ll be almost human tomorrow.  But one never knows, do one?

Nuclear Armageddon as a Plot Device

Recently Joe Biden made the news when he reversed a campaign vow and stated that under his administration the United States would maintain the right to nuclear first strike as a military option.  Now the idea of Dementia Joe mistaking the nuclear football for his tv remote and ordering up an all-out nuclear blitz on Russia and China while trying to access some kind of hair fetish programming is obviously concerning.

But really this article is more about fiction writing.  In a story that I have been working on (forever) I reached a point in the story where I considered that the best way to escape from the corner I’d painted myself into was by having thermonuclear war break out between Russia and the United States.

Admittedly, that seems like a sad statement on my writing abilities but in point of fact it provided a definitive solution to multiple plot problems I was faced with.  After all, there aren’t many scenarios that can put the US federal government on its heels.  But three 20-megaton thermonuclear ICBMs detonating over Washington is a leading contender.  So, I will confess that I considered the scenario very carefully.

One thing I noticed though is that the impact of a nuked United States is extremely disruptive to a storyline.  Even the most tyrannical US administration looks quite different after the mushroom cloud sprouts over it.  Because now all of a sudden millions of Americans are dead and the ones still living are stunned, scared and desperate for a path forward.  At that point they’d follow Satan himself if he knows where to get food and fuel.

So, everything in my story is turned upside down.  Instead of the plucky rebels fighting the evil feds in a series of hit and run attacks, suddenly they find themselves wondering how they’ll survive without the now non-existent FEMA agency to save them from starvation and hypothermia.  Now what happens to my rebellion story?  All of a sudden enemies need each other just to survive.  Freedom and independence suddenly don’t mean much when staying alive requires all hands-on deck.

So that’s the change in the atmosphere, the feel of the story.  Does it still make sense?  Can the story survive the change?  Not as originally conceived.  I was looking at a series of stories with the rebels taking on the Deep State one step at a time with the rest of the country sizing up the battle and the balance of power gradually tilting toward the rebels.  But now the battle is over but without the dramatic tension and the action.  Instead, we have a tale of catastrophe and dissolution.

And to make that story work will require a change in emphasis.  Now instead of a slowly building wave of battle we have a nuclear wipe out and a tide going out.  Instead of a war with winners and losers we have the flotsam and jetsam from a deluge struggling to survive and trying to rebuild some kind of patchwork of settlements.  That’s a totally different thing.  It becomes a bunch of smaller stories at the village level.  Instead of armies we have farmers and mechanics, men and women and their children trying to survive without supermarkets and gas stations, even without electricity.  It’s nothing like the story I was envisioning but somehow it makes sense.  Because even though we may have forgotten about the atom bomb it hasn’t gone away.  It’s still there and it has its own internal logic that makes it the executioner of last resort.  If we decide that the arc of history bends in our direction and we can do as we please no matter what, we may find that the arc is just the ballistic track of an ICBM.

So inexorably I think the story is telling me to make a turn.  Even as a fictional plot device it does make one pause.  Imagine the largest fifty American cities reduced to rubble and charred bodies.  Imagine fallout killing off a quarter of the survivors.  And food and fuel gone for the rest of the survivors.  The grimness of such a tale is hard to overstate.  How do you tell such a story so that people will want to read it?

Well, that’s a subject for another day.  But this one has helped me get my thoughts in some kind of order.  Okay, hit all those buttons!

Gone Are the Dark Clouds That Had Me Blind

They say that, “Wednesday’s child is full of woe.”  And today was a day of woe for yours truly.  I had to catch up with an assortment of tedious chores.  But I will confess that it allowed me to feel extremely virtuous.  Finally, I’m completely prepared for the first storm of the winter.  Good.

I read a post called “How the Next Civil War Begins” by a guy named B. Duncan Moench.  His ideas fall in line with a lot of things that are floating around in the air.  His version has red states rejecting the results of the 2024 elections and calling for secession.  Well, okay, maybe.  But who knows and it’s definitely not something that debating about is going to clarify.  As the mathematical types might say, the solution of the problem is currently indeterminate.  The boundary conditions are unknown.  Quoting Dr. Flankon in the seminal movie “Matinee,” “Human-insect mutation is far from an exact science.”  And so is predicting the exact schedule of a collapsing empire.  You just can’t rush a revolution.  It’s like a cake in the oven.  Peek in on it too soon and it falls flat.  So, I’ll leave such speculation for when something definitive happens.

Today I was thinking about what a wonderful time it is to be red-pilled.  Now that I can disown the dominant cultural and social institutions of American life, I feel incredibly free and alive.  Once I knew that I won’t have any control over those aspects of the world around me I’ve been able to detach myself from them.  Now I concentrate on the things within my control and try to restrict as much as possible my interactions to people who share my world view.

Someone might say I’m isolating myself from the real world.  But I think it’s just the opposite.  Those who believe in complete absurdities like transgenderism and defunding the police are the ones detached from reality.  I’m part of the community of the sane.  And no matter how fragmented and vilified by the imbecile majority we may be, I have to consider us the privileged ones.  Because we can see.  And walking around amongst the blind is an advantaged position.  We can see where the madness of the crowd is leading and ultimately that should allow us to avoid falling over the cliff with them.

Now granted, sometimes it feels a little lonely to be surrounded by the insane.  There is a certain alienation when most of the people you see around you or online speak gibberish.  But eventually we’ll get used to it and just avoid it as much as possible.  It’s like those reality tv shows.  When they first began to proliferate, I was depressed to think that these were now the entertainment we were supposed to watch.  Eventually I saw that this was just a sorting process.  People could find their own level and gravitate to the entertainment they preferred.  Granted, good things to watch seem to have gotten rarer but the same principle applies today as before.  Mostly it’s a matter of learning how to research what you want.  Whether it’s entertainment or political opinion or news.  You just have to be a little pickier to find what is worthwhile.

And maybe it’s all to the good.  Choosing the company you keep may be the better way all around.  Maybe universal brotherhood is an impossibility.  And as it turns out there are an awful lot of crazy people out there.  Having them self-select to be my enemies may be the best way to go.  It’s like those BLM and rainbow banners on car bumpers and houses.  They give me fair warning that “here be monsters.”  You can’t ask for more than that.

So, thank you Managerial Class, Deep State, Intelligence Agencies and Election Fraudsters for clarifying the situation.  I’ve parted ways permanently from you and yours.  Now you’re just the obstacles that I steer around while I’m living my life.  And you’re the contrast that I can compare my actual friends to.  Good.