(Linked to this.) [Warning: autostart video.]
Archive for QOTW
American elections send a variety of messages, and this one may be the most important:
[M]ost important of all as I consider it is the message our voting sends to the office holders and candidates whose names are on the ballots. The people who have sapped our phone minutes with robocalls. The people who have stuffed our mailboxes with campaign literature that used to be beautiful trees. The people whose television, radio and online ads filled every available nook and crevice like a foul sludge. The people who told us that they embodied all of the best of the wisdom of the great founders of our nation almost as though they were those very founders raised again to walk the earth. The people who told us that although they were not here to go negative, they did feel it was important to ask why their opponents could produce no evidence that they never played foosball with the bleached skulls of shelter puppies.
And the message we send to half of them is this: Leave us alone, and go get a job. To the other half we say: Leave us alone, and get back to work. After some six months or more of listening to them, we are finally able to make them listen to us, and it is a wonderful feeling indeed.
My condolences to anyone who’s been thrust into Recount City.
Henry Louis Mencken, from back in the day:
The state — or, to make the matter more concrete, the government — consists of a gang of men exactly like you and me. They have, taking one with another, no special talent for the business of government; they have only a talent for getting and holding office. Their principal device to that end is to search out groups who pant and pine for something they can’t get and to promise to give it to them. Nine times out of ten that promise is worth nothing. The tenth time is made good by looting A to satisfy B. In other words, government is a broker in pillage, and every election is sort of an advance auction sale of stolen goods.
(As quoted in Charting the Candidates ’72 (1972) by Ronald Van Doren, p. 7, and by Roberta X this week.)
First, a Trump-loving Florida Man sends pipebombs (functional or not) to variety of Democratic politicians and media figures. Yesterday, a Trump-hating anti-Semite murdered 11 people in a synagogue during a bris.
While I’m sure that there will be all sorts of recommendations for how to prevent future tragedies, I’m going to repeat an observation and a prescription I’ve made here more than once. The observation is that in a country of 330 million people there are always going to be a certain number of crazy people and it doesn’t take much to set them off.
The prescription is lower the temperature and it’s addressed to people writing on social media, people writing for major news outlets, politicians, and, particularly, President Trump. Lower the temperature. Express disagreement without rancor, your concerns without heat. Whipping up the crowd may be an effective way of motivating your supporters but it also has consequences you may not foresee.
As Robert Stacy McCain reminds us: Crazy people are dangerous.
A poor farmer whose livestock is a single dairy cow goes to the field one morning to milk the cow and discovers that she’s dead. He falls to his knees and looks skyward, shaking his fists and cursing God for his misfortune. Suddenly a voice is heard from the heavens: “Your cries have reached me, my son. Tell me what you would like me to do.” The farmer gazes upward and says to God, “Please, Lord, kill my neighbor’s cow.”
A hundred years from now, this will be retold as an American tale.
“Party culture”? Totally a thing, says Fillyjonk:
I didn’t get invited to the parties. I didn’t get invited to do anything much. I had friends, but a lot of them were kids who lived out of town (one, in a trailer home in the next town over; she was the first person I heard the epithet “Trailer trash” applied to, and I found that both exasperating and confusing because she was one of the kinder and least-trashy people at that school). I had other friends who came from fairly strict or very devout and rather conservative-theologically (Protestant) families, so they would not have been involved in party culture.
Anyway: I was the weird, somewhat-immature kid who cared a lot about learning and who spent her weekends hanging out with her family and a few friends (but just during the day, except for v. rare sleepovers and then only with well-trusted friend-families) or sewing doll clothes or working on her dollhouse (to an embarrassingly late age).
I didn’t fit in. I SO didn’t fit in. And that pained me a lot. At one point — I know I’ve talked about this before — I tried to listen to either the local “Top 40” station or to WMMS (the “bad kids” listened to ‘MMS, the popular girls listened to Top 40) instead of WCLV, which was what I really liked and cared about. (But I still listened to “Adventures in Good Music” with my dad: we both liked it)
So anyway. This is a longwinded way of saying all the gross stuff coming out in the news? Whether or not the parties in particular question were involved, I totally know that gross stuff happened in different places that had that kind of middle/upper-middle class milieu — the preppies. I heard rumors. I heard boasting. I saw the hungover people and heard the stories of people who wound up in hospital with alcohol poisoning.
And I had an enormous epiphany this morning:
My not-fitting-in may have saved me, in a way.
Because I was the weird kid who didn’t get invited to parties, who felt like the popular kids didn’t want her around, I didn’t get exposed to that stuff directly. (And I could mostly roll my eyes and laugh off some of the rumors as exaggeration, though I think there may have been less exaggeration than 15-year-old me wanted to believe.)
Life would be easier if we had had these revelations when we thought we really needed them, instead of three decades later — but as Sir Mick pointed out back in the day, if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.
The aphorism, says Gagdad Bob, is a sort of skeleton key: a key that has been reduced to its essentials so as to open many locks.
If words have no meaning, reality has no content.
If reality were socially constructed, man could never know it.
Liberalism was a fine idea until liberals got ahold of it.
If you’re really serious about eliminating inequality, you’ll abolish freedom and standards.
Without state-mandated discrimination, excellence would run roughshod over mediocrity.
If no culture is superior to another, then you can shut up about diversity.
Diversity is our strength so long as reality isn’t at issue.
Any idiot can survive poverty. The question for our time is whether he can survive affluence.
And any idiot can survive and even thrive in certain types of ignorance. But there is a serious question as to whether civilization can survive so many of its members attending college.
Junk food is designed to hijack certain innate preferences with hyper-palatable stimuli. Likewise, modern education hijacks the natural inclinations of the soul with intensely pleasurable substitutes that lead to spiritual and intellectual malnourishment.
Probably our spiritual decline would have arrived a century earlier had we not been disciplined by economic depression and global conflict.
Affluence is a terrible master. Its obnoxious spawn are entitlement, ingratitude, impatience, and boredom.
Convenience and instant gratification render the existence of time an intolerable imposition.
The ranks of the Resistance are filled with people who can resist anything but an impulse.
Female liberation is mostly a consequence of male technology. You’re welcome.
He’s good at these.
So, a Dallas PD douchebadgette “walks” into the wrong apartment after her shift (we call that breaking and entering for mere mortals), gets into a verbal altercation with the rightful resident (disturbing the peace), shoots him (aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon), and he dies (murder in the second degree). That’s murder with a firearm during the commission of a felony, under color of authority, which invokes both special circumstances and federal criminal civil rights violations as well.
So DPD decides to see if she was high or drunk, and put her on paid admin leave.
Instead of, say, arresting her on the spot, booking her for felony murder, and setting her bail at about $1M, like they would have if the citizen of color she wrongfully murdered for being in not-her-apartment were the offending party.
Here, let’s break down the algorithm for that:
Did you shoot him? Yes.
Were you justified? No.
Were you then, in actual fact, in the act of committing a felony? Yes.
Okay, turn around, put your hands behind your back, you’re under arrest for murder. Easy peasey, just like it works everywhere else, for everyone else, going back some centuries, even several millennia. We call that quaint custom “justice.”
In case this wasn’t clear:
When the yakuza have more honor and discipline than the police in your (or any other) town, your civilization is completely FUBAR’ed, and riding an express train to a biblical level of resetting. That train will arrive. You heard it here first.
Being a cop is a tough job. It’s even tougher when you’re stupid. But it’s tougher for everyone, cop or not, when you commit murder, and then TPTB treat you with kid gloves for fucking up in the worst way legally possible, instead of justly hammering your ass for killing people because you’re too incompetent to be trusted with a firearm and a badge.
That means you get held to a higher standard of accountability than Joe Blow, not a lower one.
Crap like this has been going on for entirely too long, and for no good reason, it’s not been nipped in the bud.
When you use words and phrases like “horrible fascist regime” to describe the Trump Administration, you are wantonly destroying any power that those words and phrases might have to warn people of authentic NASDAP-style fascism in the future. The irony here is that Trump was elected because people like you used your “power words” like “racist” and “sexist” and “fascist” to describe people like GHWB and Mitt Romney and John McCain. You used those words so often that you effectively inoculated sensible people against them.
Twenty years ago, if I heard that someone was a “racist” I took that accusation seriously and it changed the way I looked at them.
Today, if I hear that someone is a “racist” I assume that it’s a hyperbolic accusation born from political differences.
You’re doing the same thing to “fascist”. You’re using it to describe a man who is to the left of Reagan. So guess what? In 2048 when some Generation Z fellow runs on a platform of racial purity and mass murder, everybody is going to shrug at “fascist” the way they shrug at “racist” and “sexist” now. Great work.
Furthermore, when you call Trump a fascist, you are spitting in the face of the six million Holocaust victims and all of the other people who were assembly-line murdered by an actual fascist regime. You are trivializing their deaths. You are making light of their suffering. Earlier this week I explained to my son how the Nazis melted the gold out of Jewish teeth before sending them to the camps. You’ve taken that horror and used it to score political points against somebody who campaigned with a rainbow flag, somebody who received the highest rating from Jesse Jackson, somebody who has donated his own money to democratic and humanitarian causes over and over again.
You don’t know what a Nazi is. You’ve never met one. All the real Nazis were handled for you well before you were even born. If you walked around the corner and met a resurrected 19-year-old blonde, blue-eyed corporal of the Waffen SS you would piss your pants and run away. You live in a cotton-candy padded-cell world protected on all sides by cops, soldiers, and other “fascists”.
And the distance imposed by the very nature of the Internet. Any idiot can tweet, and many do; but people who will actually put themselves at risk to “speak truth to power,” as the children say, are few and far between.
Electricians, plumbers, machinists, masons, artisans of all stripes … these guys make nice middle class salaries, and they can’t be outsourced. Trump could use the bully pulpit to rail against this totally unfounded idea that only slack-jawed yokels go into the trades. It’s an easy sell — we’ve all been in a situation, I’m willing to wager, where we said “damn, if only we had a mechanic here!” I’d wager an equal amount that no one, anywhere, at any time in history, has said “if only we had someone with a BA in Intersectional Latinx Poetry!”
I might say it at some point, just for S&Gs. Or maybe not; I dislike sounding like an idiot, and one cannot pronounce “Latinx” without it.
Money is a very strange concept. There will be points in the forthcoming months when you might not have the change in your pockets to get the bus into town at the same time as you are talking to people on the telephone in terms of tens of thousands of pounds. Some of the following might seem contradictory but in matters of money they often are. We spoke earlier of how being on the dole gives you a clearer vision of how society works. What it doesn’t do is give you a clear idea of how money works.
After you spend any time on the dole you either resign yourself to the economic level your life is at and cope — or things start to slide. The rent gets into the arrears. The electricity goes unpaid. The gas board threatens to cut you off. When this starts happening a paranoia begins creeping in telling you modern society is geared to working against the individual and YOU in particular. The late eighties reaction to this is invariably to realise that the only way out is for you to become suddenly very rich and none of this will matter any more. You will start to fantasise about becoming very wealthy and how very shortly it will happen to you. You only have to make the smart move, find the right key, make the right contact, be discovered for what you are. Your fantasy will be fuelled by everything.
Nobody wins the pools. There is no such thing as a fast buck. Nobody gets rich quick. El Dorado will never be found. Wealth is a slow build, an attitude to life. I’m afraid the old adage that if you look after the pennies the pounds will look after themselves is always true. That said, you must be willing to risk everything — that’s everything you haven’t got as well as you have got — or nothing will happen.
Nothing much has changed in three decades, has it?
Then again, as we were told, time is eternal:
His novels rested on a journalist’s reporting and his journalism had fiction’s flair, perhaps because he did not simply write words the way we do when we’re just communicating information. Wolfe used language — every facet of it on which he could lay his hands. Funky punctuation? All of those literary devices we were supposed to memorize in English class like alliteration or onomatopoeia? Multiple voices in narration and dialogue? All of those and more. If Winston Churchill was supposed to have mobilized the English language and sent it into battle, Wolfe mobilized it and sent it out to help people understand an increasingly weird and troubling world. It may sound like a much lower goal, but all Churchill had to do was defeat the Nazis. Wolfe had to explain why people paid money for a Jackson Pollock painting.
A difficult task indeed.
The phrase “America First” comes with a whole lot of historical baggage, not all of it inspiring:
Gerald L. K. Smith, a former associate of “Kingfish” Huey P. Long and one-time director of Long’s “Share The Wealth” program, decided to use the name for a political party in 1943 — and Mr. Smith was a former Silver Shirt who’d been rejected by the old America First Committee for anti-semitism. The America First Party ran its own slate of candidates and barely made a dent in the national consciousness; in 1947s, perhaps a bit wary of their own past, they changed their name to the Christian Nationalist Party; in 1952, both that party and a remnant or reorganized America First Party tagged General Douglas MacArthur to be their Presidential nominee, though neither bothered to ask his permission. The America First Party name has resurfaced periodically since, generally by candidates on the far-Right to over-the-right-edge side of the spectrum.
So when I get a message on my phone from Mike Pence, telling me he’ll be speaking at an America First rally this weekend, my awareness of history makes me flinch; at best, using the tag is appallingly tone-deaf. At worst? I think we can rely on the Press to find plenty of “at worst.”
Of course, that’s the deal: she has an actual awareness of history, which in political discourse these days seems to be a decided disadvantage.
The guy with just a little bit of power, the Z Man recalls, is often a dictator in his dreams:
Meter maids, building inspectors, zoning office clerks, these are people with very narrow authority, but they wield it with the zeal of a bloodthirsty tyrant. That’s because the sort of people attracted to the work, are the sort of people looking for any chance to have authority over another person. The way American cities solved their sadist problem is they installed parking meters and made the sadists into meter maids.
Today, it is the social media companies hiring the petty tyrants, sadists and mentally disturbed spinsters, giving them a job of reading your tweets. These are the people who scan the internet, looking for “hate speech” they can put on a list, so that other petty tyrants can use it to torment the hate speaker or anyone interested in him. These are people who relish the task, because it is the only time anyone notices them. Our public space is turning into a daycare center run by sadistic schoolmarms.
Of course, there’d be little demand for schoolmarms were it not for the amazing number of participants in the (formerly) public square who never actually outgrew middle school.
(Linked to this. In 1972, when I went through it, it was eight weeks.)
“Omnibus, schmomnibus.” Bill Quick doesn’t think much of this spending bill:
[T]he GOP talks a great game about spending and deficits, but when the rubber meets the road, they roll right over, because they need that juicy grease with which to buy their own votes. And Congress is, at bottom, nothing more than a grease creation and processing factory, in which special interests must be greased at the expense of Americans and their future.
I don’t know why I even bother to mention this any more. The power of the purse is what keeps the entire foul machinery humming along. Same as it always was.
Which is the whole idea of an omnibus bill in the first place: every one of those prevaricating pricks gets to sneak in a pet paragraph, the quo of gratitude for a proffered quid, and no one will ever know since Evelyn Wood is long dead and nobody else can read that fast.
Proposed fix, preferably as the 28th Amendment: “Congress shall make no law which exceeds in length the original Constitution.” Four thousand five hundred forty-three words.
County charges female prisoners for hygiene products; attorney sees red, says it’s a civil rights violation to staunch the free flow of tampons and county must absorb the cost, no strings attached. Period.
(Linked to this.)
(Linked to this.)
James T. Kirk deals with the Kohms and the Yangs once more:
I have no problem with social justice I have a problem with the toxicity of those who do things under the guise of social justice when in reality it’s them oppressing others for their own selfish, personal agendas. https://t.co/FKKRiaEAPq
— William Shatner (@WilliamShatner) February 8, 2018
Prime Directive, anyone?
News Item: In January 2018 curators at Manchester Art Gallery caused controversy by suddenly removing one of [John William] Waterhouse’s most famous and popular works, Hylas and the Nymphs, from public display. The painting was replaced with a notice explaining that a “temporary” space had been left “to prompt conversations about how we display and interpret artworks in Manchester’s public collection”. On its website the curators explained that this was being done in connection with a current debate on historical cultural depictions of submissive women.
The thing about the movement (although Waterhouse is a bit late to be considered a proper Pre-Raphaelite, from what I’ve read) is that it preserved more than arbitrary beauty standards of the time. The Waterhouse painting in question, Hylas and the Nymphs, is the rendering of a Greek myth about Hercules. Waterhouse also painted Circe from the Odyssey, Ulysses and the Sirens, Boreas (wind), Jason and Medea, Echo and Narcissus, and so on. He envisioned scenes from Shakespeare: Miranda, Ophelia. He created a visual representation of the famous line from Herrick: “Gather ye rosebuds.” The movement loved beautiful women, classic literature, and mythology. They preserved more than beauty. They preserved major themes and ideas from throughout Western history and culture. Their paintings recall the best and most beautiful milestones of a culture that has shaped the world for the better. But this culture is one we are taught to despise.
So the censorship of Hylas, and similar censorious acts throughout the art world, are about more than naked nymphs (although they are quite lovely). They are about the censorship of cultural memory, and the attempt to erase our contributions to civilization as a whole, in order to create a historical narrative more in line with the revisionist SJW worldview. You can’t have art students asking what happens to Hylas after those pretty girls get done with him. You can’t have indoctrinated youth looking up King Cophetua after viewing the all-consuming longing with which he gazes at the beggar maid captured by Burne-Jones. You can’t have them asking about Millais’s Ophelia and her madness. Just as the Renaissance painters are capable of starting conversations about the Christian Bible, the Pre-Raphalites draw you into their worlds of myth, fairy tales, and unparalleled works of literature that the SJW community has long fought to erase.
If 1896 is irrelevant to your worldview, believe me, 2018 is more so.
And Hylas was returned to public exhibition this week, telling me that this was basically a stunt to sell a point of view that they couldn’t get anyone to swallow otherwise.
(Linked to this.)
The First Amendment shall ultimately prevail, says Cobb, because its opponents are too stupid for words:
Despite the fact that feebleminded nitwits are accorded one vote in this great nation, they have proven incapable of staging the kind of revolution among their fatuous fraternity required to overturn the First Amendment rights of the rest of us. While we are mindful that a number of dubious “institutions of higher learning” as well as many dainty lily-livered website editors have been cowed by the shrill whinging of the moronic meddlers, these are but farts in the wind: offensive, boorish, putrid and largely imperceptible by those who dealt it, yet soon to be dispersed but not forgotten.
The greater threat are those duplicitous criminal facilitators who have been made wealthy through the aggregation of the nickels and dimes of idiot attention, the purveyors of “reality” in the media and legal professions always looking to cash in on the lowest common denominator. In league with the humorless screechy drama queens who interrupt sensible society with their obsessions, there is a cadre of cads, ever present and primed to overturn the works of more thoughtful and reflective citizens of the republic. These creepy comrades have managed to twist legitimate universities into Möbius contortions of civility and discourse which only appear to be two-sided.
We are now at the point where all news should be considered Fake News until proven otherwise. Efforts by the likes of Facebook and Twitter and Google to persuade the public that they’re doing something about that may be easily dismissed as mere corporate desires for a piece of the action, nothing more. Truth is worth nothing in a phony marketplace of ideas that constantly clamors for bigger and better lies. This situation cannot prevail for long, and it won’t.
Gerard Van der Leun on Advent, a season today’s putative intelligentsia must feel dishonor-bound to scorn:
If it is true that the sleep of reason breeds monsters, can it not also be true that the constant wakefulness of Reason breeds its own peculiar hallucinations; its walking horrors?
We depend on Reason when we flip a switch, step on a brake, or seat ourselves in pressurized thin metal tubes that hover 40,000 feet above the earth and move at 500 miles an hour. This power would seem to argue that Reason should be trusted in all things, that the intelligence that runs up and down the synapses of our brains in an endless flickering web of electo-chemical space-time events is the ultimate arbiter, the final judge, the self-obsessed lodestone of our lives.
And yet … and yet …
And yet, hovering outside of Reason, we still somehow sense Immanence; we sense there is something more going on here, something vaster unfolding all about us, no matter how sternly Reason rules.
We sense Immanence, no matter how many times we are told the opposite; we sense that myth, legend, soul, magic, miracle and mystery still hold us, and that
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor,
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
As we now move more deeply into Advent, we move — in our long sweeping orbit about our home star — closer to the moments when that which is most deeply our gift and most certainly our curse is made manifest in the music of our being in a manner beyond all reason. And no matter what our faith — even if that faith is that there is no faith to be had — this turn of the year, this Advent, will inexorably bring us once again to the memory of the miracle made manifest all about us in every moment if we could but pause to see the forever present revelation.
Matthew 11:15: “He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.” And those who wish not to see, perhaps they will be granted their wish.
When was the last time you heard any of these contemptible cretins referred to as a “statesman”? The very idea of comparing any of the villainous poltroons currently in Congress to, say, James Madison, James Monroe, or, for that matter, Peter Muhlenberg of the first Federal Congress is risible on its face. The kind of people drawn these days to “serve” in Congress couldn’t be trusted to walk your damned dog. You certainly wouldn’t dream of hiring them to babysit your daughter, even for five minutes.
The profligate treachery and self-serving arrogance of John McCain; the addled witlessness of Maxine Waters; the complete mendacity and dishonesty of Nancy Pelosi; the smug double-dealing of Harry Reid; the slimy disingenuousness of Mitch “Yertle” McTurtle — these aren’t exactly ringing endorsements of the caliber of people in charge of government in the modern era. Some of them — most, probably — might be vain and presumptuous enough to think they’d fare well in a comparison to the true statesmen of an earlier age. But that only adds “delusional” to the litany of their inadequacy.
The character traits of those attracted to national elective office effectively guarantee that they’ll be the very type of person we wouldn’t want there. An overblown sense of self-importance; a desire to lord it over others, and an unswerving belief in their competence to do so; a monstrously and unjustly inflated ego; a mania for attention and affirmation; a near-sociopathic lack of interest in the needs or desires of other people; dishonesty and shamelessness; short-sightedness and disinterest in long-term consequences; basic fiscal greed — these pathologies, crippling disqualifications in just about any other field, are now requirements for success as an American career politician.
Nor are these traits reserved solely to persons named on ballots; the last few administrations have had an unerring knack for finding underlings at commensurate levels of fatuity. Deluged by smears and countersmears, those of us who have better things to do than play Fantasy Despots all week have a tendency to lose interest — which, of course, makes life easier for those who would rule us.
(Linked to this.)
Quinn Cummings, then eleven, was nominated for an Academy Award for her supporting role in The Goodbye Girl. Now fifty, she remembers the studio cads of yesterday, and she’ll tell you that things have hardly changed:
For decades, these men tore through women with perverse immunity, proffering carnal quid pro quo, threatening women’s livelihoods or, in the case of Bill Cosby, allegedly straight-up rendering them unconscious before taking advantage of them.
But the whispers don’t stop with these obvious, public examples. The same women who spoke among themselves about Harvey [Weinstein], about Terry [Richardson], also speak about well-known actors who are not quite the loving family men their publicists would have you believe. Instead of a bathrobe, it’s a private meeting. Instead of a clumsy grope, it’s a “helpful” lingering brush of your breast. Instead of a disgusting proposition, it’s a greasy little implication that a few minutes together could lead to something better down the road.
This is no longer black and white. It’s gray. And people dont like gray, especially when it comes to sexual assault, which they really don’t want to be thinking about at all. They like their sexual assault clear, recognizable, and not committed by men who are America’s marital hall pass. Should these stories come out, the public’s response to the victims might not be nearly as supportive. But the fact remains, you can like someone very much and they can still be capable of terrible things. Unless Hollywood reconciles itself to the fact that not all sex criminals look like ogres, the question we should ask ourselves is what solidarity hashtag we’ll be using a year from now when nothing has changed.
And you should also follow her on Twitter, where she has one of the tartest tongues around.
It was thirty years ago today,
when the markets were in disarray.
Every trader had a certain style,
but Black Monday took away their smiles.
So may I introduce to you,
the act you’ve known for all these years:
Sgt. Bloomberg’s Lonely Hedge Fund Band.
(Linked to this.)
God, using His Donald Sensing persona, refutes the notion that He should have prevented the carnage in Las Vegas, or any of several million other misfortunes:
Oh, believe me, I was at Las Vegas. It was a bitter night for me. But I was there.
There were a man and a woman listening to the concert when the shooting started. They did not know one another. They dived under a table. He was hit, yet he lay across the woman, shielding her with his wounded body.
A young man led 30 people to safety. He was shot doing so. There are many, many other examples. And thousands of people waited for hours on end to give blood.
Oh, you say, that’s just human nature. We do not know whether those heroes and heroines even believe in a God. So? Where do you think human nature comes from? Why do you think my grace cannot operate preveniently even in the hearts of those who know me not? I am always leading every event of the world toward the good. But there are many other influences, too, such as the hardness of your hearts and the will to evil, the imperfection of your understanding, the finitude of possibilities in a world of limited resources and capabilities. Yet my will wins through more often than you think.
But why does Las Vegas prove my dereliction? Funny how no one accuses me of indifference over the murder toll in Chicago. But even that is not necessary. Just one child dying of hunger in any remote corner of the world serves just as well. (Although I might argue that it proves your dereliction more than mine.)
An example on a smaller scale:
Not long ago a young man atop a tourist center in the Alps was walking and texting. He walked right off the side of the mountain, fell 250 meters and of course did not survive. Could I have intervened? I suppose so; I could have suspended gravity and floated him gently through the air back to the platform. Or I could have made him just bounce at the bottom with no ill effect. Or I could have made it impossible for human beings to walk while texting. One or the other, never both. Or I could have just made sure that smart phones were never invented to begin with.
Here’s the thing: You do not get to choose. You are not God. You have no power for miracles so you don’t get to tell me how to work them or when or how.
And after all, who is to blame for the nitwit tied to his smartphone? Not God, and not Samsung either.
This whole medical insurance debate is complete and utter horseshit. (Heh, my new catch phrase.) What we need is real information, but we’re not getting it. It might be out there, but digging it out would be a lot of work, and why bother? Nobody in power is listening, they are all listening to each other trying to score political points by telling bullshit stories.
Our healthcare system is built on a fantasy, a fantasy that is carefully nurtured by everyone with a financial interest, like doctors, lawyers, insurance executives and media moguls. This fantasy has doctors curing all diseases, patients recovering fully and leading happy, productive lives. Oh, that happens occasionally, and for common afflictions that are well understood, it might even be the norm. But the more people you have, the more variation you have and the more obscure, inscrutable diseases show up. Life is a terminal disease. People spend their lives trying to be happy. They should spend their time getting ready to die.
Health care is a trillion dollar business in this country. All those people who are engaged in the debate over insurance are just trying to influence the trajectory of that money so that more of the random spray that emanates from such a powerful stream will land on them and make them rich. Because even a single droplet from that trillion dollar stream is worth a million bucks.
I take issue with that “getting ready to die” business; I mean, with the death rate seemingly frozen at 100 percent, everyone’s going to go through that routine at least once, if only for a few seconds, and there are enough differences among us to insure that a Standard Preparation Routine would fall under the general heading of “one size fits none.”
That said, there apparently exists no sum of money so small that someone won’t try to get a piece of it: ask the guy who buys 10,000 shares of Consolidated Veeblefetzer at $37.19 and sells them in three minutes for $37.20.