So, you’re not free to determine the path your life takes? Why? Is it like the song? Because your love is, “too much, Baby?” Is your autonomy actually restricted by the attachment to which you’ve surrendered? Or, have you, like another song, “the kind of debts no honest man can pay?” Or maybe, you just want to “fit in” or be “normal,” but that normality severely restricts the frontiers of your authentic self? Well… what to do? Will you roll with the imprisonment, or will you take action and do like a whole ‘nuther song, and choose one of the fifty ways?
First, i guess we need to define terms starting with, “freedom”. What does it mean to be “free”? For the narrow purpose of this mental snapshot, let’s go with a less than conventional definition (from A. Bierce’s sarcastic dictionary)… “FREEDOM (noun): Exemption from the stress of authority in a scant half dozen of restraint’s infinite multitude of methods. A political condition that every nation supposes itself to enjoy in virtual monopoly. Liberty. The distinction between freedom and liberty is not accurately known; naturalists have never been able to find a living specimen of either.” Could it be the effort is futile? We’ll save that questin for later. For now, let’s just agree the condition of “freedom” is slippery at best.
And what does it mean to be “caught in a trap”? Is this a good or bad, pleasant or painful condition? Again, an elusive concept to pin down. Do restrictions imposed by the trap cause pain, or are they more like liberators, freeing our minds to explore expanses of thought without the burdens of engineering and executing an escape plan? The question might take you back to those wild and wooly “salad days” when you KNEW you had to generate enough income to feed yourself and secure a warm place to sleep in those bone-chattering winter weeks or a cool oasis in the “dawg days.” This might have required a duel life, one that makes room for the tasks for acquiring necessaries, and another that feeds your restless soul. You didn’t want either to interfere with the other, so you found a normie gig that wouldn’t sap what creative bandwidth you had, and you avoided creative gigs that might jeopardize your meal ticket.
And finally, what exactly is “normal?” After all, science finds itself baffled by some serious inexplicabilities. For one, if gravity is an attractive force, what explains the dramatic “red-shift” observed by light from distant galaxies? According to what we know about the Doppler Effect, those pups are speeding away from each other at roughly the speed of light… WTF? Shouldn’t gravity be pulling them together? And what about that spooky “quantum entanglement” nonsense? If nothing travels faster than light, how can anyone explain the “instant” response of entangled particles across vast distance? How can those particles possibly move in synchrony with no delay? These and other paradoxes have to be reckoned with before we can stand on a box and declare what should and should not determine the boundaries of knowledge. After all, have you seen Escher’s art? How long can you stare at those images before giving up and just accepting the notion that sometimes you just have to be satisfied with a non-resolution resolution.
So… are you really not “free”? Are you really caught in a trap? Can someone or something actually force your soul into a restrictive box?
Seriously… have you ever tried to put yourself into the slippers of those unlucky bitches and bastards locked in cages? Sing-Sing, CSP Canyon City, Club Fed, the Hanoi Hilton, Auschwitz, Dachau, Siberia, and Gaza? What sort of redemptive discipline does it take to survive those literal “traps”? And can that sort of resilience be applied to the regular routines most of us endure on the daily? I imagine that sort of superpower would come in mighty handy for those elderly neighbors waiting out delays in medical procedures or the brief and scarce visits payed by over extended loved ones? Folks who were once strong and vital, free to move around with supple limbs and grand ambitions. But now they’re grounded by failing health and limited monetary resources? When they finally realize no one is coming to save them, what sort of mental expanse can they exercise to endure the quiet hours that comes with chronic sedentary existence?
Could it be efforts to reach gold-plated states of “liberty” or “freedom” are futile? Einstein was right about time… it’s relative to local conditions such as pleasure and pain. If we could find a way to fill our days with service and purpose, even if that means dealing with… ugh… people or worse, our own nagging regrets or admonitions, maybe then time would be a friendlier companion. And so, if those literally confined in cages can do it, so can we. Even if we think we’re “trapped” by conditions beyond our control. Don’t wait for a savior, no one is coming. Get up, stand up, find a purpose and fill your days working for it. Give it your all… and don’t let disappointing results stop you. It’s like the lessons of geology and the Shawshank Redemption. Time… time and pressure. Time and pressure create diamonds and the possibility of genuine freedom.
What will time and pressure do for you? How will you reconcile the non-resolution resolution?
On a heat-dome addled Monday in Tewksbury, MA, Ronnie and Rocinante slid into a local convenance store for fuel and to replenish the ice chest. As Ronnie was interacting with the generously inked and dreadlocked counter attendant, his manager, clearly the owner of this mom & pop operation, looked Ronnie in the eye and said, “Do you have an accent?” Now, Ronnie had just returned from another provisions outlet where he overheard a conversation between associates.
“I think this point of sale terminal is malfunctioning in ‘cash mode.'” she said, “I’m gonna set it for cad-only.'” Now, is that a typo on our part? NO! She said “cad,” but what she meant was “card.” So, Ronnie remains a bit perplexed as to whom exactly has the accent.
Ronnie, responding to the convenience store owner said, “It seems nobody has an accent till they get around people with a different one.”
Truer words.
Anyway, we’re in Rhode Island for this post, and for some reason, Ronnie had experienced some sleep irregularities. Not the norm mind you, but it happens and when it does some wild dreams get remembered (example?). Case in point, Day #2 in Coventry, another invasion of Ronnie’s peaceful sleep cycles… a sort of blathering screed about that mostly coastal postage stamp of a state. And who’s the narrator? That cartoon fat man, a walking testament to the American diet and the utter collapse of television censorship, Peter Griffin. Jesus Christ, is this what we’ve come to? There must have been something weird about that clam chowder Ronnie got from the local grocery? The horror, the horror…
Peter, in a fit of fiery indignation, started in on one of the state’s founders, “This Roger Williams character. A refugee, they say. Fled persecution. Bullshit! He was probably just too goddamn weird even for the Massachusetts Puritans, and that’s saying something. He bought some land, probably with a handful of cheap beads and a bottle of rotgut whiskey, and declared it ‘Providence.’ A sanctuary! For who? For the ‘weirdos and misfits,’ the ‘guys who do a little this and a little that.’ Sounds like a goddamn convention of the criminally insane, doesn’t it? ‘Rogue’s Island,’ they called it. More like Rage Island, or Rancid Island, a Petri dish for every festering perversion known to man…” Suddenly, a voice from the men’s restroom, “Giggity!” Then silence.
He continued, “And the Constitution! Oh, the glorious, blood-soaked parchment of American liberty! While the rest of the nascent republic was trying to cobble together some semblance of order, Rhode Island was apparently sittin’ on the couch like, ‘Nah, I’m good. I’m readin’ the Farmer’s Almanac.’ Good Christ!” Peter was on a roll. “The sheer, unadulterated laziness of it! Not principled dissent, mind you, but pure, unadulterated apathy, only stirred into action by the threat of losing their ‘beer money.’ This wasn’t a fight for freedom; it was a shakedown, a desperate scramble to avoid the inevitable taxation that always follows the grand pronouncements of liberty.”
Peter signaled the bartender for another round and pressed on. “‘Ocean State,’ they crow. Four hundred miles of coastline! Fourteen percent water! As if this is some grand revelation. It’s a goddamn island, you morons! What did you expect, a desert? It’s like boasting your bathtub is full of water. It’s a transparent attempt to distract from the real stench, the profound, unsettling truth about this place.”
In the hazy mist of the dream, Ronnie wasn’t a hundred percent sure to whom Peter was directing his rant, but the outlines of his Afro-Cuban neighbor, Cleveland, began to materialize, a half-empty beer in front of him. Peter, looking skyward in righteous reverie continued, “And the slavery, oh, the slavery! ‘First to abolish,’ then ‘Just kidding!’ A legislative sleight of hand, a cynical wink and a nod to the rum distilleries and the triangular trade. Six point three percent of the population enslaved in 1774, almost double the New England average. Don’t tell me about ‘freedom’ and ‘liberty’ when the very foundation of your prosperity was built on the backs of stolen lives. It’s the same old hustle, isn’t it? Preach the gospel of freedom while your pockets are stuffed with ill-gotten gains. The hypocrisy, man, it’s enough to make you chew your cartoon arm off.”
“I like rum,” Cleveland said, his deadpan delivery barely audible in the wake of Peter’s fog-horn tirade.
“Rogue Island,” Peter lampooned, “first to tell England to buzz off, last to join the Union. A pattern emerges, doesn’t it? A chronic inability to commit, a perpetual state of adolescent rebellion, always wanting to be the special snowflake, until the big boys threaten to cut off their allowance. It’s not courage; it’s just plain pig-headedness.”
“And the voting! Jesus… the goddamn voting! You needed $134 in property, for Christ’s sake! By 1840, only 40% of white men could vote. It’s a system rigged from the start, designed to keep the unwashed masses in their place, to ensure that the propertied few could continue their grotesque charade of democracy. And this ‘Dorr Rebellion‘… a pathetic, localized spasm of outrage, quickly squashed, leaving the fundamental rot untouched. The Supreme Court, naturally, ‘wouldn’t touch that.’ Why would they? It’s all part of the grand, unspoken agreement to keep the boot on the neck of the regular folks here at the Drunken Clam.”
The rest of Peter’s drinking buddies began to materialize. Peter soldiered on, “then the vampires! Good Christ, the vampires! Tuberculosis, they say, but the rubes, the goddamn rubes, they saw bloodsuckers. Digging up bodies, burning hearts. It’s not just a historical footnote; it’s a profound metaphor for the state of the superstitious soul. When faced with the inexplicable, we resort to primitive rituals, to burning and fear, rather than confronting the cold, hard facts. And a ‘vampire heart’ for a couple of beers? That’s the kind of logic that gets you locked up in a padded room with a straightjacket.”
“The Civil War, the Gilded Age, the KKK burning a school for black children… a relentless parade of entitled ugliness. Industrial might built on exploitation, wealth amassed by robber barons, and the persistent, festering cancer of racial hatred. And the Catholics! The most Catholics! Just another demographic shift, another wave of huddled masses yearning to breathe free, only to find themselves crammed into textile mills and subjected to the same old Capitalist grind.”
Peter was beginning to sound like a Billy Joel song, “Bike paths, clam chowder, johnnycakes… meaningless diversions, crumbs thrown to the masses to keep them from noticing the true horror. And the mob! The Patriarca family, running New England from Providence for forty years. Now that’s the real power, isn’t it? Not the politicians, not the courts, but the silent, brutal efficiency of organized crime. It’s the only thing that makes sense in this goddamn asylum.”
“And the ultimate indignity?” Peter was starting to sound magnanimous, humble, even. “The state’s defining cultural artifact is a cartoon, a crude, blustering, ironically lovable cartoon with absolutely no redeeming qualities.”
Peter Griffin, working at the Pawtucket brewery, lampooning the very place he inhabits. It’s the final, damning indictment. Rhode Island, a place so steeped in its own absurd contradictions, that its best legacy is a perpetual punchline delivered by a cartoon with a metric ton of ironic jokes, none of which are too good to be driven into the ground or, “the bottom of Greenwich Bay you landlubbers.” Say what you will about Rogue Island, it can’t get weird enough for Ronnie & Rocinante… they love it here.
Onward through the fog… Rohlfie
When the Puritans… Come off too venomous… You’ve Rhode Island… For your providence… Four hundred miles of… Shore line restlessness… Meet me and Griffin… At the Drunken Clam.
The class war is over… we won.~ Warren Buffett (paraphrased)
This morning, i woke on the heels of a very strange dream. In that spilled neon netherworld between wakefulness and full-bore dreaming, i saw a TV debate of the most grotesque and farcical kind. A clash of larger-than-life personalities that seemed to pulse with the beat of a mournful tune. The exchange left an assembled host slack-jawed and angels reaching for their smelling salts. On one side, Raoul Duke, the fictional alter-ego of Gonzo Journalist, Hunter S. Thompson, a bit disheveled from what looked like a three-week bender in the heart of the American Nightmare. On the other side, Grigori Rasputin, peasant turned confidant to the imperial family of Nicholas II, the last Emperor of Russia. Basically, an unsanctioned agent from Hell, officious as ever in a full-length black tunic, his beard scraggly, his eyes glittering with infernal amusement.
DukeRasputin
The subject of this bizarre cage match? Nothing less than the relative merits of the Beatitudes versus the neo-reactionary agenda of a lavishly funded, high-tech, anti-democratic, ethnonationalist wrecking crew.
Duke, surprisingly, championed the Nazarene’s teachings, albeit with a somewhat impaired countenance suggesting he might have misinterpreted “turn the other cheek” as an invitation to sample every substance in his kit bag. He blathered on about meekness, mercy, and loving your enemy as yourself. His arguments punctuated by tics of paranoia and a banshee howl that rattled the walls.
Rasputin, meanwhile, was in his element, his sardonic wit honed to a razor’s edge. He expounded the neo-reactionary talking points with a gleeful malice, projecting contradictions, absurd fantasies of racist discrimination, and thinly veiled appeals to violence and hatred onto the distracted Duke. With the confidence of an operative well versed in Curtis Yarvin‘s litany of insipid Matrix anecdotes and historical cherry picking. He painted a portrait of red and blue pills, medical experimentalists, and treasonous enemies within, with minds controlled by a monastery of elites indoctrinating youth with a bankrupt philosophy of “the woke.” His heart filled with a venomous envy of anyone with a slightly brighter enlightenment, or an accurate take on Eric Raymond’s thesis of the Cathedral and the Bazaar.
“These libtards,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, “prattle on about the merits of diversity while simultaneously demonstrating their utter intolerance of white male energy. They yearn for a mythical world of brotherly love that could never exist, a paradise of fools and dreamers lost in the mists of their own addled imaginations. The very embodiment of the Dunning-Kruger effect, their ignorance so profound it renders them incapable of recognizing their own stupidity.”
Duke, roused from his stupor by Rasputin’s shameless belligerence, attempted a rebuttal, but his words were lost in a torrent of incoherent babble. He stumbled over his own feet, his bucket hat askew, his kit bag waving erratically like a train conductor’s lamp gone haywire. Even in this impaired condition, he mocked his interlocuter’s obsession with gender ambiguity and critical history, his ludicrous claims of religious hegemony, and his pathetic attempts to cloak his bigotry in the mantle of patriotism.
Rasputin, sensing the rabble on his side, pressed the attack. “These are not patriots,” he thundered, “but parasites, feeding off the carcass of a once-great nation. They’re the enemies of freedom, foes of common sense, the very antithesis of everything that is good, sweet, and true in the human spirit.”
The debate, if one could call it that, ended in a whimper rather than a bang. Duke, thoroughly distracted and utterly outmatched, collapsed in a heap of red herrings and non-sequiturs. Rasputin, victorious but strangely melancholic, vanished in a puff of brimstone, leaving behind the lingering scent of sulfur and the echo of scathing laughter.
The assembled onlookers, meanwhile, were left to ponder the spectacle they had just witnessed. Had a cartoon character just delivered a wobbly, but eloquent defense of Christian values? Had the wizard of Petersburg just leveled an aggressive defense of neo-fascist philosophy? Had the world gone mad? Or was this just another Tuesday in the heyday of the New Apostolic Reformation?
One thing was certain: the universe has a wicked sense of humor.
OH BOY. Project 2025… This is where i have to crawl out of the closet:
THIS RESPONSE ADDRESSED TO: Kevin Roberts (Heritage Foundation’s Poobah) See below, a few high points i am compelled to address… Otherwise… this could be a sleepless, nightmare, Hellscape of a year. OR… go HERE for a less angry synopsis (pro & con).
History teaches that a President’s power to implement an agenda is at its apex during the administration’s opening days. To execute requires a well-conceived, coordinated, unified plan and a trained and committed cadre of personnel to implement it. (xiii)
Ummm… ok… organized political action, kudos.
In the winter of 1980, the fledging Heritage Foundation handed to President-elect Ronald Reagan the inaugural Mandate for Leadership. (xiv)
So… in effect, giving POTUS marching orders? You go on to say, for Project 2025, you need to go “back to the future…” ??? LOL… love this wordsmithing, so subtle. I’m starting to warm up to these loopers… 😉
The long march of cultural Marxism through our institutions has come to pass. (xvi)
Ok… seriously… what are you talking about, here? “Cultural Marxism”… what the hell does that even mean? This? -or- This? For now, let’s just put it in the “straw man” category, that way we can get on with it, as Monty Python would say.
The federal government is a behemoth… (xiv).
Truedat… like anything else… there are good and bad aspects. Reform should be a regular feature. As well, some attempt to keep communication and information management capabilities up to date would be nice.
The federal government is weaponized against American citizens and conservative values… (xvi)
Bullshit… bullshit… straight-up bullshit! But even if it were true, no part of the weaponized librul gub’mnt is gonna murder conservative standard-bearers like when the flip was on the other flop. Remember… when America was great, in the 1960s?? Please? Can we just skip over the breathless hyperbole?
…with freedom and liberty under siege as never before. (xvi)
What the hell does this even mean?? Seriously… c’mon… skip the hyperbole…
Ok… now, a quick summary of the four pillars of the… plan… manifesto? Can we call it a manifesto? Sure… let’s do that.
Pillar I: With the help of partisan consultants, each president gets to decide how each federal agency is run. (xiv)
Intriguing, but won’t this lead to a counterproductive level of chaos? Oh… that’s right… you don’t plan to cede power to pedophilic cultural Marxists ever again, am i reading this right? Sure. Got it.
Pillar II: Populate federal agencies with partisan activists only… (xiv)
So… anyone see Stalinist overtones, here… Buhler… Buhler…?
Pillar III: Presidential Administration Academy, an online educational system taught by experts from our coalition. (xvi)
READ => Political indoctrination/grooming… hello…! WAIT…! Isn’t this what conservatives accuse leftists of doing all the time? Isn’t this some classic Freudian Projection? Is every accusation gonna end up, after the receipts come in, freaking confessions? Hey… i’m just asking questions here.
Pillar IV (the playbook): …we are forming agency teams and drafting transition plans to move out upon the President’s utterance of ‘so help me God.’ (xiv)
Ok… you’re ready to rumble as soon as you get your emperor installed. I wonder if anyone saw this coming? Hmmmmmm…
Forty-four years ago, the United States and the conservative movement were in dire straits. Both had been betrayed by the Washington establishment and were uncertain whom to trust. (1)
Still sore about Nixon’s fall from grace?
Now, as then (1970s), our political class has been discredited by wholesale dishonesty and corruption. (1)
Couldn’t agree more… but… to lay it all at the feet of your political opponents is disingenuous at best, political expedience at second best, willful deceit in fact.
Contemporary elites have even repurposed the worst ingredients of 1970s ‘radical chic’ to build the totalitarian cult known today as ‘The Great Awokening.’ (1)
Totalitarian cult? Again… disingenuous treatment. You see, in the wake of the ‘summer of racial reckoning’ there was an academic movement scrutinizing the plague of institutional racism. The media bubble Jon Stewart calls “Bullshit Mountain” and others, latched onto this moniker (The Great Awokening). They identified a convenient boogyman, and are now furiously tilting at it while the rest of us stand back and marvel at the energy expelled by these Errant Knights of Christendom.
Most alarming of all, the very moral foundations of our society are in peril. (1)
Please explain yourself… cos, to me, this sounds like desperation. Your churches are losing their cultural dominance, and you want to call this “moral decline” as if your moral compass is the only one worth considering? I know this might sound harsh, but bless you, bless you, and by all means, bless all the way off. Yours is not the only worthy moral code out there. In fact, it’s not even the most beneficial. Please take a look at your ten commandments… four out of the ten are no better than tossing glitter to the sky for all the benefit they provide. Again… bless you, and the unicorn you rode in on!
We brought together hundreds of conservative scholars and academics across the conservative movement. Together, this team created a 20-volume, 3,000-page governing handbook containing more than 2,000 conservative policies to reform the federal government and rescue the American people from Washington dysfunction. (2)
Admirable collective effort, no knock there. Unfortunately, your policies are not popular with the one-person-one-vote world. You know… democracy? I suspect you had picked up on this, and so now, you want to keep Mr. Trump’s 2025 campaign platform mum till such time as it is too late for voters to thoughtfully consider the implications. You employ subterfuge and obfuscation to slip your plan into a place that can’t be easily dislodged? Hey… i get it, your pragmatism is admirable, but i think i’d rather see a federal government reflect the actual will of the governed… you know the kind of government Lincoln dedicated his life to preserve. Ah shucks, i know… that’s just me… me and 81,283,500 others.
As Ronald Reagan put it: (2)
Seriously… i. don’t. care! The only thing i’ll remember about Mr. Reagan, other than that whole Bed Time for Bonzo business, is his VooDoo economic plan gutting the US middle-class, turning them into the “working poor.” Congratulations Conservatives (in name only), you’ve made billionaires very happy. all the while slowly deleting the very thing that made America Great in the first place (a thriving middle-class).
The bad news today is that our political establishment and cultural elite have once again driven America toward decline. (2)
Unfortunately, it’s hard to mount a counter argument here, but again with your disingenuousness. The blame does not simply lie at the feet of your political opponents. I know that kind of talk gives your base a swell of righteous pride, and gives your opponents a rallying cry against zero-sum zealots, but to the rest of us (non-affiliated independents), it just makes you look like playground simpletons, and thanks a lot, you’ve allowed the neighborhood bully into your “cool kids” clique… tsk tsk.
…this book is the work of the entire conservative movement. As such, the authors express consensus recommendations already forged, especially along four broad fronts that will decide America’s future: 1) Restore the family as the centerpiece of American life and protect our children, 2) Dismantle the administrative state and return self-governance to the American people, 3) Defend our nation’s sovereignty, borders, and bounty against global threats, and 4) Secure our God-given individual rights to live freely—what our Constitution calls ‘the Blessings of Liberty.’ (3)
Right… to have our kids raised with loving, stable families is super important, but restoring the “nuclear family?” … yea… no thanks… this is an outmoded bankrupt system of determining a man’s “chattel property” … it’s no longer a sustainable model… let’s go back to the drawing board, shall we?
Yes, there have been difficult and dysfunctional periods in the regulatory movements and agencies in the past. But these agencies have also done much to mitigate dangers inherent with laissez-faire capitalism. Example… Denver’s “brown cloud“… in the 70s… damn… very bad… by the time the Clinton Admin was finished, much improvement. I imagine this story isn’t uncommon among industrial centers of the USofA.
Yes… agree, but immigrants aren’t the enemy. The real question should be whether the USofA still has carrying capacity for more of the world’s “tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free”? If not, then we should start restricting immigration to emergency cases? I don’t know… and i wouldn’t want to be responsible for making these damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t decisions.
Just what are you referring to with this “blessings of liberty” thing? I suspect this is just an excuse for “predatory acquisitive individualism” because, founding fathers, baseball, apple pie, Mom… Jesus? And though i have given over to the logic of markets, i’m not sold on the current trend of rendering individual votes subordinate to the almighty dollar. See, the gap between those obscenely rich and merely getting by, those millions of “working poor,” is so wide now as to be unimaginable for anyone not trained in exponential mathematics. Democracy is at stake, but not due to the straw man right-wingers have constructed (the deep state), but rather the corrosive influence of filthy rich donors manipulating power in their favor, against the interests of the working poor, and the doomed. Yea… in other universes, this might be known as institutionalized corruption.
This was one of the secrets of conservatives’ success in the Reagan Era, one our generation should emulate. (3)
Again… we have a fundamental disagreement on the matter of Reagan’s legacy… and i would be fine if we never brought it up again. I’ll make an exception if you want to discuss Mr. Reagan in the context of the relative merits of “Supply Side” economics.
…conservatives should gratefully celebrate the greatest pro-family win in a generation: overturning Roe v. Wade, a decision that for five decades made a mockery of our Constitution and facilitated the deaths of tens of millions of unborn children. (6)
So… first, let’s take a look at the premise of this longstanding argument. That advocates for female agency and bodily autonomy do not “value human life”? Again, with the disingenuousness… you KNOW your political opponents value life, and their children. Yet, your bald-faced lie persists. In my view, the cruxt of the disagreement is where we can logically recognize a sentient human life. The Roe standard is at the point of “fetal viability,” that is the point where a NICU could keep a baby healthy and vital outside the confines of the mother’s womb. You profess to believe a dignified, ensouled human life is created as soon as the egg accepts a sperm and begins cell division. But… this is at odds with your own holy book. Genesis 2:7 says life begins with the first breath. Not deterred, you declare, your conception of Pro-Life to be the ultimate moral stand, and with self-righteous pomposity, you say it out loud between bites of a pulled pork sandwich, then proudly assert yourself occupier of the high ground, like Donald J. Trump at a NATO summit, all the while cheering the latest state-sanctioned execution… “Pro-Life”? Please…?? I’ve read Orwell… i’m on to your jam.
Listen: You KNOW there have been instances of unjust capital punishment, but you rationalize it as a deterrent anyway. Living, dreaming, self-aware human beings? In my view, one unjust execution is too many and should trigger YOUR “right to life” instinct far more than the abortion of a 12-week-old fetus. Astounding hypocrisy! And then there’s the exercise of geo-political power in the form of war. We willingly kill those we perceive as enemies… living, dreaming self-aware human beings? No problem. But… abort an unplanned, unwanted, pre-viability pregnancy, even IF it’s the product of rape or incest, and oh boy do we have a problem! In my view, it’s none of your business what goes on with Shelly down the street’s rape baby, or Patty’s oops. Medically reversing these mistakes engenders more outrage in you than the execution of an innocent person… especially when that innocent person doesn’t look like you or any of your neighbors? Tsk tsk… shame on you!
Want to hear an alternative vision for where humanness begins? Yea, i know, you don’t. You think your view is backed by the creator of the universe. Wow! News flash! Your view of the source of “ultimate authority” isn’t universally embraced. In fact, the fastest growing religious affiliation in the US is “none of the above,” a group to which i belong after a reasonably normal childhood of indoctrination, groomed in the Christian bosom (baptized Mennonite). So, that said, i’ll throw it out there, cos i can. What if true humanness requires self-awareness? You know, that point when a baby starts recognizing Mom or Dad. When the baby starts looking at items around them, like toes, and toys, and crib bars, etc. Two months or so after trauma of birth? Does anyone actually want to draw the line there? No one i know of, but you could put the logic to the test. And what if that logic was put to the test, and what if it were determined the baby isn’t really self-aware until weeks after the trauma of birth, would that justify infanticide for unwanted or defective pregnancies as Mr. Tumpty Dumpty repeatedly alleges? Hell to the no! But drawing the line needs to address all concerned parties. Yes, even the pearl-clutching church crowd. In my view, Roe got it about as right as it can be got. Listen, if we could interview everyone approaching legitimate medical practitioners for abortion services, i believe we’d find an ocean of remorse and mourning for the life that could have been, and the means for reversing the course nature was on. Again… none of my, or your, business.
And if we can just drop all the subterfuge surrounding this issue, we’d have to acknowledge this full-court press to stop abortion as a means of birth-control is more about a fear of brown people outbreeding whites than anything else. With the white grievance crowd fearing browns might exact a similar sort of oppression that they (whites) exercised and continue to exercise over non-whites now. If we can drop the obfuscation and subterfuge, we can confess this “Project 2025” is all about control. But i suspect this control, if applied, is going to be no more effective than the legend of the Dutch boy holding back the dam with his finger. I learned from my civil-engineering friends, water always finds its way “downhill.” This whole Project 2025 swagger has got desperate fear written all over it. And you, Kevin Roberts, when you say the quiet part out loud, when you threaten your political opponents with violence, you will answer to the government of, by, and for the people when the people finally prevail. It may not be this time around, but it will happen. You will lose in a truly democratic contest. And when you do, you will have to account for your authoritarian aspirations.
The people will out… “From many, One. E’Pluribus Unum.” “One Nation, Indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for All.”
Ah, North Dakota. Land of horizon-chugging grass-land and enough sky to make a claustrophobic traveler weep with joy. The stretch from Rapid City to Bismarck looked so much like the above image, it’s uncanny. No way could we get driver’s fatigue because it was straight up pastoral… beautiful! The state motto, in classic radio voice, declares “Liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable!” But hold your horses, loopers, because North Dakota liberty isn’t exactly Park Avenue window shopping. It’s more like strapping yourself to a goddamn rocket and blasting off into the great, howling void.
The ongoing search for hot springs? Asking around, we learned about Mineral Springs, tucked away in the Sheyenne River State Forest like a secret whispered by the wind. One measly waterfall, that’s all you get. But hey, at least it’s free – the water, that is. You might have to wrestle a badger for a decent towel. Unfortunately, it’s roughly a couple hundred miles out of the way so we took a pass. You see, nighttime temp in Bismarck dipped into the low 40s, and we were prepared for a late spring heat wave. So… we paid a quick personal hygiene visit to the local Planet Fitness, shivering at 5:30am, but then hightailed out of there, lickity-split.
Busking? No, but we did send some practice numbers into the Planet Fitness dressing room.
Famous musicians? Sure… those of a certain age might remember Bobby Vee, Peggy Lee, and Mary Osborne to name a few.
Colleges? Sure, there are a few universities scattered around, public and private, dispensing knowledge like seed corn. But don’t expect any Harvard Yard elitism here. These are institutions built with calloused hands and a no-nonsense spirit. Think less tweed jackets, more Carhartt overalls.
Literary landmarks? Well… North Dakota didn’t raise any Prousts. But there’s a certain stark beauty to the landscape that’s inspired its fair share of poets and novelists (Louis L’Amour anyone?). It’s the kind of place that makes you want to pound out a story on your typewriter with the fury of a possessed prairie dog.
Now, about those North Dakotans… they’re a hardy bunch, shaped by the relentless, brutal winters. They may give you the shirt off their backs (after peeling off a layer or two), but they won’t hesitate to tell you where to shove it if you cross them. We’re told it’s a land of salt-of-the-earth honesty and a deep respect for tradition.
Let’s get down to cases… you’ve seen the Coen Brother’s Oscar-winning movie, Fargo, right? North Dakota winters are enough to make a penguin question life choices. And if you’re looking for excitement, well, you might be better off watching paint dry. But there there is a certain peace to this place, a vast emptiness that allows you to breathe and maybe even hear yourself think. We know… we experienced it first hand on the drive to Bismarck from Rapid City.
Famous figures? You might not recognize their names, but North Dakota’s churned out its fair share of tough hombres and pioneering women (Louis L’Amour anyone?). Farmers who coaxed life from the stubborn earth, politicians who fought for what they believed in, everyday heroes who faced down blizzards and droughts with grit.
Lifestyle? For visitors, it’s a chance to disconnect, to shed the city slicker facade and embrace the raw beauty of the Great Plains. For natives, it’s a life built on hard work, community, and a fierce independence. It’s not for everyone, this North Dakota. But for those who find solace in the howl of the wind and the endless expanse of sky, it’s a place to call home.
As for that state motto, well, you can imagine North Dakotans appreciating their liberty as the freedom to leave their porchlight on all night without anyone bothering to steal it. We had to imagine it, because the wet, frigid night and morning made us hot to trot to get the hell outta Bismarck.
Once again… apologies to Woody Guthrie:
In North Dakota… You got your liberty… But don’t forget… Responsibility… To help each other… In the face of nature’s wrath… Now and forever… We are one!
Ah, the irony, it burns like a habanero dipped in turpentine! These self-styled patriots, these bastions of bootstrapped prosperity, these impotent congress-critters, now want to pull the ladder up behind them, leaving the rest of us to drown in the fetid swamp of their hypocrisy.
For decades, they’ve feasted on the fruits of immigrant toil, their pockets lined by the sweat and tears of folks who crossed deserts and oceans for a shot at the American Bait-and-Switch. They’ve built their empires on backs bent under the sun, minds dulled by the drudgery of minimum-wage purgatory. All the while, they (the ruling elites) sang hymns to liberty and opportunity, their forked tongues dripping with a molasses-thick patriotism that choked on the merest whiff of diversity.
But now, the winds are shifting. The browning of America, once a distant tremor, is an earthquake at their door. The faces they once exploited, the hands that picked their crops and cleaned their toilets, are no longer content with crumbs from the master’s table. They dare to aspire, to dream of a slice of the pie they helped bake. And that, my friends, is the real culture war.
Suddenly, the land of the free morphs into Fort Knox, the Statue of Liberty replaced by a gargoyle with a padlock for a mouth. Walls rise like monuments to their own fear, moats filled with the crocodile tears of those who once swore by the great American melting pot. They rail against “invasion,” these architects of exploitation, while forgetting the original sin – the forcible dispossession, the bloody conquest that birthed their precious nation.
The irony is enough to make a jackass weep! These masters of the oligarchy, these captains of energy-independence, these dismantlers of democracy, now reduced to trembling toddlers clutching their sandcastles against the tide. Their gilded cages, built on the backs of the forgotten, suddenly seem awfully fragile. And as the waves of change lap at the ramparts, they scream for walls, for moats, for anything to keep the ghosts of their own greed at bay.
But let them not fool you, these wall-whiners, these moat-mongers. Their fear is not of immigrants, but of justice. Their gated communities are not sanctuaries, but confessionals, where they whisper the sins of a nation built on stolen land and desperate workers. So let the walls rise, let the moats fester, for in their fetid depths lies the true face of American hypocrisy, a monument not to liberty, but to the fear of its own shadow.
Loopcircus 