What Drives A Megalomaniac?

The several pieces that Fran posted this week have prodded me to move forward with a conjecture that I have long felt needs to be shared.

With the video featured below, Jordan Peterson spurred the bulk of what I will present to you today. I reacted favorably to his sudden realization that his predilection to avoid facing a difficult conclusion — that is often stated by some version of what is called Hanlon’s Razor — is long past its expiration date. Rather than watch all the video, I have provided readers with this easily read transcript. (Right click to open in a separate window should you wish to follow along with the video.)

“We [Western powers} seem to be doing everything we can to break everything as rapidly as possible.”

I see the evidence as insurmountable and undeniable as does Dr. Peterson. What we are witnessing is far worse than mindless stupidity. Gates (and others like him, but let’s continue to use him as the avatar of that sort) appears to be mesmerized with destruction. Why?

There is a huge likelihood to suspect the desire to destroy on a large scale is related to the ultimate violation of the Tenth Commandment. With all the wealth he has accumulated — only he knows how much by fair or foul means — came all this power to affect the lives of others.

But he cannot create life. So far it seems only The Creator can do so. Many have faith in Him. But even the atheist occasionally has doubts that he is correct in believing that God does not exist. One may think “but what if He does” from time to time. Yet even after he discards his doubt, what remains is the very concept of God. It’s an idea that can stick in anybody’s head and refuse to leave.

And an apparently Godless man such as our avatar cannot help but feel the frustrations that any mortal must endure. For all his power he cannot compete even with the concept of God. “So many people love that concept but resent and even hate me.” So we can see how our avatar’s resentment can come to be as boundless as that which he has come to hate megalomaniacally. If it wasn’t so dangerous in a powerful human, one might feel sympathy. One more effectively could wish there was a way to get him to repent his envy and simply feel grateful for all that has come his way.

So what remains for this ungrateful oaf to do to express his dissatisfaction? Destroy all that is good that he can, for the good is what God represents and makes available to all.

Sure there are fools who believe in the Malthusian Inevitability, but Gates simply hides behind their antihuman drive to aid them so he may strike back at the very concept of An Ultimate Creator. There cannot be a trace of selflessness in such a Godless creature. Whatever drive he started out with to achieve his wealth, almost certainly he is now solely driven by hatred for an Idea he finds out of his reach.

And what better way to do this than to destroy the only creature on Earth who can contemplate the existence of God.

(Hat tip to Darin at Crusader Rabbit for bringing this Peterson clip to my attention.)

Unreality And Lethality

     I have no idea how much attention John C. Wright’s impassioned essay, which I cited yesterday, has received. I hope the answer is “enormous,” as it deserves that much, but in the main people are averse to confronting their own sins. And let’s be candid here: just about all of us are complicit in the crimes Wright has enumerated. For most of us, our contribution has been an unwise degree of tolerance for what should never have been tolerated at all.

     The evil jewel has innumerable facets, but the core of the gem is the tolerance of lies. Sensible people stood mute and idle while others promulgated unrealities and demanded that they displace objective realities.

     Unreality kills. Indeed, it’s deadlier than any tangible weapon Man has yet devised.

     Do I really have to explain that? Have we lost so much of our sense for our own natures that we can no longer see how unreality undermines the foundations of human existence?

     Oh well. At this hour I don’t have much else to do.

***

     No other neologism has attained the power and uniformity of interpretation achieved by the term gaslighting:

     Gaslighting is a form of psychological manipulation in which a person seeks to sow seeds of doubt in a targeted individual or in members of a targeted group, making them question their own memory, perception, and sanity. Using persistent denial, misdirection, contradiction, and lying, gaslighting involves attempts to destabilize the victim and delegitimize the victim’s belief….

     Sociopaths and narcissists frequently use gaslighting tactics to abuse and undermine their victims. Sociopaths consistently transgress social mores, break laws and exploit others, but typically also are convincing liars, sometimes charming ones, who consistently deny wrongdoing. Thus, some who have been victimized by sociopaths may doubt their own perceptions. Some physically abusive spouses may gaslight their partners by flatly denying that they have been violent. Gaslighting may occur in parent–child relationships, with either parent, child, or both lying to the other and attempting to undermine perceptions.

     An abuser’s ultimate goal is to make their victim second-guess their every choice and question their sanity, making them more dependent on the abuser.

     Patrick Hamilton’s play Gaslight gave the term its interpretation. The 1944 Charles Boyer / Ingrid Bergman movie embedded it firmly in our popular lexicon. But why? What accounts for its power?

     The answer is appallingly simple, though few people bother to reflect on it:


When no fact is reliable,
No purposive action is possible.

     The mind deprived of the ability to rely upon its sense data is paralyzed thereby. Similarly, the society that is allowed no solidity – that is, no objectively true and enduring reality, agreed upon by all sane persons at all times – is paralyzed. It cannot support itself nor act in its own defense and will swiftly deteriorate into chaos. Chaos means death, both for the individual and for his society.

     Purpose only sets goals. Action is required to pursue and fulfill them. Unreality deprives us of the ability to know what will result from our actions. Thus, when unreality displaces reality, action becomes impossible. Death will swiftly follow. It cannot be made simpler than that.

     And a cocoon of unrealities wraps ever more tightly around us.

***

     Most of the ranting and raving I do here addresses political questions. That’s fairly commonplace for bloggers of my generation. And to be sure, many of the lies being pressed upon us are political in nature. But there are others, nominally separate from any political question of note, that are at least as destructive as any Usurper Regime policy to date. Wright addresses them all; I shan’t recount them here. But in one brief sentence of diamond-tipped penetration, he elucidates the intent of the promulgators:

     Theirs is the motto of the unhinged egomaniac: Thou art God.

     God is the conceptual instantiation of our fundamental conviction that reality is real. (Yes, yes: He exists, though in a supratemporal, supra-spatial sense. I’m talking about the importance of the concept of a Supreme Being in undergirding our metaphysics.) We rely upon reality – we consider it reliable — because we believe that it is God’s handiwork, and that He made it lawful. Without God, the universe is foundationless. It has no “why.” The impossible and mutually contradictory are as admissible to our thinking as the possible and logically consistent.

     Metaphysics abhors a vacuum quite as much as does Nature. Something will flow into the space from which we have expelled God. The promulgators of unreality intend to take that vacated space for their own. What they desire shall be theirs regardless of its impossibility. What displeases them, they will simply decree not to be.

     You don’t have to squint to see the end in view.

***

     I’ve relied heavily upon the intelligence of my Gentle Readers. Individuals near to the axis of the Big Bad Bell Curve would find the argument above confusing, perhaps even incomprehensible. You have to be fairly far to the right of that axis to have a chance of integrating it – and integrating it, rather than merely accepting it as true by decree, is the critical event. It renders you capable of acting as an ambassador for it.

     How odd that last sentence must seem to you! Does reality need ambassadors? Time was, you might have said “No, it can speak clearly enough for itself.” But these are not normal times. The concept of normality itself is under severe and sustained attack.

     This is my “briefer jeremiad.” If you grasp what I’ve said here, you have a mission, one as imperative as Jeremiah felt his to be:

     Then I said: I will not make mention of him, nor speak any more in his name: and there came in my heart as a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I was wearied, not being able to bear it. [Jeremiah 20:9]

     Jeremiah was persecuted for his preachments and prophecies. It’s the price of witnessing to reality in an Empire of Lies. And with that, I believe I’ll close for today.

Difficult Week

I’ve been working hard to get set up for AEP. That’s the season when Health Insurance Agents basically run around losing their minds and sleep, trying to fit a year’s work into just under 2 months.

It’s hectic, but generally energizing. Some years, circumstances put roadblocks in the way – as COVID-19 did for us, in 2020 and 2021. Masking created a barrier to communication, many interactions were pushed in the virtual realm, and frustrations escalated.

The plan providers rose to the challenge. They created software and workarounds in blazingly short timeframes. They impressed the heck out of me.

But this year brought a special challenge. A dear cousin died last month, and, due to several moves (on her part and mine), we’d lost contact. I only heard about her passing yesterday. she was five years younger than I am, and way too young to die.

There will be a memorial service, one they are calling a Celebration of Life, in November. The time delay is likely due to the challenge of getting together such a large group. She was one of ten children – two others since passed – and they live in multiple states.

My kids reacted much as I did when I was a child and heard of the passing of one of my mother’s many relations like many of Irish Catholic descent, her family was large and close. To me, it was sad. To her, it was yet another death of someone connected to pieces of her youth. Each death tore a hole in her memories and connection to family.

My gift to family this year will be to provide links to family photos and stories. My brother and sister and I have been scanning old photos, writing the information (who, what event, when, where) and attaching the description to the file. It was a massive project, but the majority of the work is done. I’d love for others in the family to set up folders for their branch of the family tree, and add their own photos.

Impassioned And Accurate

     With a small number of exceptions, I find the fictions of John C. Wright not to my taste. However, as a general commentator, the man ranks with the best. Yesterday, he let fly with a jeremiad that Jeremiah would have envied. Have a brief taste:

     All of our current society, as embodied in every major institution, are likewise aimed toward a purpose, but a far less noble one. The purpose is the opposite of Christendom. It is Antichristendom. The purpose is to conform the current laws and customs to the most hypocritical, perverse, and most wicked vices that benightedness can produce.
     The purpose is falsehood.
     Our age ventures to destroy civil order, to denature man, to defame heaven, and to establish and maintain an Empire of Lies. For our age is devout toward unreality, and worships untruth. Every major institution is fraudulent, fake, and false.

     And that’s before Wright is fully warmed up. After that he “swings for the fences.” Please read it all.

     With most commentators, I can find some points on which we disagree. That’s natural; after all, how often do two persons on this ball of mud agree on absolutely everything? Even the late Joseph Sobran, my commentator-hero whose style and penetration I’ve striven to emulate, differed with me about a couple of things, most notably in his criticisms of Israel. But in my opinion, Wright’s essay is a dead-center bull’s-eye. Andrew Klavan and others have discoursed on the “Empire of Lies,” but never with Wright’s precision, concision, and fury.

     I don’t think I’ll have time for a regular essay today, so please read Wright’s opus and reflect on it. Yes, it’s unsparing. But perhaps the time has come for us – We the Perpetually Babied, who demand not merely tolerance but applause for the worst of our excesses, who’ve been told from innumerable sources that “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law” – to be spared no longer.

     Thanks and applause to Concerned American at Western Rifle Shooters for bringing this to my attention.

Ukraine, Explained

I understand those who have an emotional response to the Russia-Ukraine War. I have, myself, experienced some sports-stands reactions (Yay, MY team!) to news about the events.

Nonetheless, the post from The Z Man makes a good case for staying more hands-off. I have friends who are Ukrainian-American (one a relative). I realize that this is not just another far-off war; this is PERSONAL.

But, in fact, for most Americans, it is not, and should not be. We cannot get involved in Yet Another Far-Off War (YAFOW). It drains our Treasury, it forces us into alliances with corrupt governments, and it allows the interests of Europe to dictate our national policy.

Where foreign wars are concerned, Just Say No.

Mysteries, Not Complexities

     Just yesterday, I encountered this touching essay at The Catholic Thing. It starts with the mention of a recent wedding. However, its true import is expressed in this segment:

     I’d converted to Catholicism from atheism in my mid-20s (I’m 39 now). This wasn’t news to anyone, but few expected the faith to take center stage on a day that was ostensibly about my wife and me.

     Even those I’d been closest with in recent years were surprised by the lack of subtlety. My social circle had remained secular-liberal following my conversion – I’d never been introduced to the young Catholic scene since my conversion came post-college. And while I lived the faith unselfconsciously, I never pushed my friends’ noses in it. I think (I hope) this earned quiet respect over the years.

     I’d overheard enough at parties to know how they felt about Catholicism. I’d certainly seen enough on social media.

     But they loved me much more than they hated my religion. Anything good for me was good with them. So they were able to appreciate my faith on a therapeutic level, as if it were no different than if I’d taken up yoga or started a healthier diet. Catholicism was just another item on my personal wellness plan, albeit one they considered mildly distressing.

     And so our deeply Catholic wedding was a shock for them, just as it would have been had I gotten married in a yoga studio and given all thanks and praise to the Master Yogi.

     This is a more common thing than most people, including most Christians, are aware. Nonbelievers generally regard believers as deluded, if not outright insane. The C.S.O. regards me that way – and after 31 years together, I don’t think her opinion is likely to change.

     The author continues in an evangelistic vein:

     Since entering the Church, I’ve favored the “show-don’t-tell” approach to evangelization. “Preach the Gospel at all times, use words when necessary,” Saint Francis of Assisi supposedly said, though it’s difficult to imagine him speaking in syrupy quips….

     The preach-through-example model also enables us to shirk the responsibility of explaining the complexities of our faith. Even communicating the basics – that we were bestowed existence by a Creator Who, like a good parent, both respects our freedom and loves us madly – takes preparation, practice, and effort. [Emphasis added by FWP.]

     And in this, he goes wrong.

***

     Complexity, properly understood, is a function of causation. Things with clear causal origins are simple. Things with muddled, multivariate causal origins – i.e., multiple factors interacting in shifting ways – are complex. Note that this has nothing to do with whether the thing itself is easily identified and dealt with. An apple is a simple thing: the fruit of a particular tree, good for eating and cooking. The biological processes that give rise to apple trees and their fruit are complex.

     In a sense, the existence of Mankind is simple: We’re here. We didn’t do anything as a species to get here. The biological, social, and evolutionary processes that produced our kind were undoubtedly complex, but as individuals, dealing with us tends to be fairly straightforward. The optimal method is summarized in Christ’s Golden Rule.

     The Christian faith, as summarized in the Nicene Creed, is also simple. It involves some simple premises:

  • That there is a supernatural realm, and a Supreme Being who rules it and all of what we call reality;
  • That what we call reality is His creation, and whether directly or indirectly, we are His creatures;
  • That because Mankind is flawed – i.e., men have a propensity for abusing one another – He sent His divine Son to preach a New Covenant to us, and counsel us to repent.
  • That there is a third Person of the divine Trinity, “who proceeds from the Father and the Son,” Who functions to illuminate the minds of men.

     These are premises. Accepting them requires treating them as postulates must be treated: unprovable but true. From them comes all of the Christian faith, though not all of the teachings of the Church.

     Accepting the premises is not a complex operation. It may be hard – the decision to put one’s trust in propositions about things we cannot see or touch usually is – but it’s not complex. We even have a short name for it: faith.

     Eighteenth century mathematician Girolamo Saccheri was unhappy about postulates too: in his case, the postulates of Euclidean geometry. Look what happened to him.

***

     Catholicism may be a ramified set of doctrines, but Christianity itself is not. Many persons are Christians but not Catholics. Accepting Catholicism requires an extra premise: that Christ has delegated the continuing elucidation of the New Covenant to the Catholic clergy. That premise, which Catholics call the Apostolic Succession, implies that the Church hierarchy has limited authority to expand on the Ten Commandments and the two Great Commandments on which they’re based: “Blessed art thou, Simon Bar-Jona: because flesh and blood hath not revealed it to thee, but my Father who is in heaven. And I say to thee: That thou art Peter; and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” [Matthew 16:17-18]

     There’s no need to go into Catholic doctrines themselves. Nearly all of them are clearly wholesome and quite obviously beneficial to life, but even that is irrelevant to the central question. The point is that the premises required to accept Christianity, and after that Catholicism, are simple. Either one accepts them or one doesn’t.

     Effective Christian evangelism does not require complex explanations. It requires what I’ve set forth above. The premises from which Christians proceed are not complex but simple. However, they are mysterious: that is, they evoke questions that begin with “Why?” and “How?”

     Christianity has often been called a “mystery religion.” But it is very far from complex. Indeed, complexity would have rendered it incapable of taking hold of billions of souls over the course of two millennia, for people generally refuse to base the principles that govern their lives on complexities. Saint Francis of Assisi’s possibly apocryphal statement – “At all times preach the gospel. When necessary, use words.” – stands as the best imaginable testament to it.

Presented For Your Edification

     It happened in Texas:

     Videos posted to social media show a mob of young Black men, teens and children violently attacking a Hooters restaurant in Plano, Texas on Thursday, according to posters of the videos. Customers and staff were attacked at the entrance and windows were smashed. A woman inside the Hooters can be heard off camera exclaiming, “It’s over a f***ing chocolate bar!”

     The videos show what appears to be staff retreating to the entrance from a dispute outside in the parking lot that turned violent. The staff is attacked in the vestibule, with one male staff member assuming the BLM kneeling position to no avail.

     Can white Americans go on sharing a country with that? Oh, here’s a bit more, from Divemedic:

     A police officer is trying to break up a fight between two high school students when a third one jumps in and body slams the cop.

     Reading this story, I note that it makes no mention of the races of those involved. You know what that means. Just as I suspected, white cop and black attacker. Watch the video and see for yourself.

     PayPal would probably demand $2500 from me for noticing this.

     UPDATE: And here’s some more!

     An Alabama man with a history of domestic violence charges has been charged with another crime after a 1-year-old girl had boiling water poured down her throat.

     Eugene Lamont Sneed, 23, of Mobile was charged with aggravated child abuse, according to WPMI.

     Sneed has had three domestic violence charges against him in the past four years.

     Sneed faced a third-degree domestic violence charge in 2018, a first-degree domestic violence charge in 2020 and another domestic violence charge in 2021.

     The perpetrator:

What, Again?

     PayPal must be run by people with really short memories. The threat to fine PayPal users for saying things PayPal dislikes is still in force, except that the “misinformation” clause has been dropped.

     It won’t work. PayPal is going down. After all, these days just about anything anyone says can be castigated as “racist,” “fascist,” or “discriminatory,” including citations of federal statistics.

     People tend to be more protective of their wallets than anything else in their lives except their children. PayPal will learn this to its ultimate sorrow.

     Just a quick observation. I’ll be back later with something more substantial.

The “Oopsie! We Didn’t Mean It” Edition

     The PayPal version of a Kinsley gaffe, about which I posted Friday, has angered users widely. Apparently, the backlash has been voluminous – too great for PayPal’s managers to withstand and keep their annual bonuses. So they’re trying to walk it back:

     A red-faced PayPal walked back a shocking new policy announcement that users who advance “misinformation” could face fines of $2,500 per offense, saying it was all a mistake after The Daily Wire called attention to the chilling scheme.

     The financial services company, which has repeatedly deplatformed organizations and individual commentators for their political views, announced Saturday, one day after The Daily Wire story broke, that the announcement went out in error.

     “An [Accepted Use Policy] notice recently went out in error that included incorrect information,” a PayPal spokesperson said. “PayPal is not fining people for misinformation and this language was never intended to be inserted in our policy. We’re sorry for the confusion this has caused.”

     It won’t work. Pretending that the proposed $2500 “fines” are what departing users are cheesed off about and beating a hasty retreat from the proposition won’t save PayPal. Too much “woke” bullshit has already gone down.

     The proposed “fines” were laughable for several reasons, not the least of which is that the great majority of PayPal users literally never have $2500 in their accounts at any time. But for my part, I kicked them to the curb for the clause that says “in PayPal’s sole discretion.” History on that subject makes it plain that their “discretion” cannot be trusted, especially in combination with these clauses:

  • “the promotion of hate, violence, racial or other forms of intolerance that is discriminatory”
  • “depict, promote, or incite hatred or discrimination of protected groups or of individuals or groups based on protected characteristics (e.g. race, religion, gender or gender identity, sexual orientation, etc.)”
  • “are fraudulent, promote misinformation, or are unlawful.“

     That stinks of “woke,” and I will have no part of it. I’m sure many other former PayPal users feel the same.

     The penetration of “woke” bullshit into a great many private-sector firms that should know better is having steadily intensifying effects. People have already lost jobs at companies that one would think have no coupling to any particular political posture. People have already been refused various services for “woke” reasons. And of course we have the closure of Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, and other Big Tech fora to anyone who dares to emit an anti-“woke” opinion.

     “Money talks; bullshit walks,” as the old saying goes. The promulgators and enforcers of “Woke” – the whole censorious constellation of hard-Left / “politically correct” bullshit – are learning, albeit tardily, that the old saying retains its force. PayPal will suffer. It will be left with a shrunken user base that does less transacting per capita than the users it alienated. And in keeping with another old saying — “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” — there will be no redemption.

Progressions

     Time was, anyone with a high school diploma could be relied upon to know at least a little about mathematical progressions: arithmetic (additive), geometric (multiplicative), and others. If you had a little awareness of limits, you might even be able to work out how an open-form progression can be reduced to a closed-form expression. And with that sentence, I’ve probably lost half my audience, for such things are no longer included in the typical high-school education.

     There are other kinds of progressions than the purely mathematical, of course. Some of them have been at work on us for some time now.

     I’ve written about the loss of trust on several previous occasions. It’s a melancholy subject, as the cited essay demonstrates. What makes it so bleak is our awareness that trust is built gradually, over years, decades, and generations, but is infinitely fragile regardless of its longevity. It can be shattered by a single betrayal, and often is.

     The progression toward trust and the cataclysm that can follow its sundering are worthy of contemplation all by themselves. However, there’s an aspect of that progression that deserves particular mention on this rainy Saturday morning in the Year of Our Lord 2022.

***

     The accumulation of social trust — i.e., trust in the honesty and / or fidelity of an individual, group, or organization – progresses by statement-plus-confirmation. That’s one of those things that impels me to use the “obvious” word…but please do remember that in the practical sense, obvious means overlooked.

     What’s also all too frequently overlooked is that the con men and swindlers of our species know it, too. A snippet from Steven Brust’s novel Phoenix comes to mind:

     “Why did you arrange to have those Easterners arrested?”
     A sneer began to appear on his face but he put it away. “Is there some reason I should answer you?”
     “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
     “You’d never make it out of here alive.”
     “I know.”
     He stared at me. At last he said, “You’re lying.”
     I shook my head. “No, I don’t lie. I’m cultivating a reputation for honesty so I can blow it when something big comes along. This ain’t it.”

     (Apropos of nothing, Brust’s Vlad Taltos novels are a master class in the writing of effective dialogue. Aspiring novelists can learn more from them about the paired arts of characterization and dialogue than from nearly any other works of contemporary fiction. Highly recommended.)

     The con artist learns to inculcate trust of him in his target by this simple, pedestrian method. He simply cultivates the relationship for as long as necessary, giving the target ample opportunities to witness his reliability in word and deed. Generally speaking, the bigger the score he’s aiming at, the longer and more complex the cultivation of trust must be, each event coaxing the target to increment his trust in the con artist. When the time is ripe, he “spends” that accumulated trust to pull off his con. Afterward, of course, the trust has dissipated…but the target has been shorn of his life savings, or his company, or what have you. David Mamet’s brilliant movie House of Games illustrates the procedure, with some clever twists thrown in for lagniappe.

***

     Some of the above is undoubtedly familiar to my older Gentle Readers from life experience. Nearly everyone near to my age has been conned at some time in his life. Only the perfectly sheltered manage to avoid it. Our species’ con artists are many, skilled, and widely distributed.

     There are maxims about how not to be conned. One of them is that the ripest target is the man who’s looking to score big himself. Another is that the desire to get something for nothing is a target’s prime qualification. Both are valid. Combine them and see what you get.

     What has this subject on my mind is a startling, even frightening article about election fraud. Please, please read it in its entirety, including the linked material. My thoughts this morning center on a clash between two loci of trust: Catherine Engelbrecht of True the Vote, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

     We’ve been assured, in many and varied ways, that the FBI is an institutional paragon of trustworthiness. Recent events have called that notion into severe question, such that the public’s willingness and ability to trust the FBI has cratered almost completely. At this time, the FBI can no longer be regarded as reliable, neither in word nor in deed.

     Catherine Engelbrecht has accumulated a lot of trust from those who’ve watched her these past few years. For my part, I take her at her word. The events chronicled by the linked piece put her and her colleague Gregg Phillips in direct, absolute opposition to the institutional veracity of the FBI. She can substantiate all the developments in the 15-month adventure with no difficulty. The FBI, on the other hand, has gone silent.

     Where does that leave us, trust-wise?

***

     “Be careful not to fool yourself with your own tools. A map is a useful thing, but it hides details that can change the whole complexion of a campaign. Look here.” Malcolm pointed to green-shaded bands labeled Alsace and Lorraine. “It doesn’t look any different from the areas around it, does it?”
     “From which I infer that it was different.”
     “Very different. Heavy forestation, few major roads, and uphill going east. An attacker’s logistical nightmare, especially from the western side. Probably the best defender’s territory anywhere in Europe. The French thought they could penetrate the German defenses here before the Germans swept down on Paris. The path from Paris to Berlin through Alsace and Lorraine is visibly shorter than the path from Berlin to Paris through Belgium. They were very, very wrong.”
     “How long did it take them to figure out that they’d been had?”
     He grinned without humor. “One month. By which time they had lost the northern quarter of their territory and were committed to a four-year war that cost them two million men.”
     “Didn’t anyone know about this beforehand?”
     He nodded. “Yes. Schlieffen and the Germans. They knew that the French emphasis would be on reclaiming the provinces they’d lost in 1870. It was a motive burned deeply into the French General Staff, and it worked entirely in the Germans’ favor.” He snorted. “Of course, the Germans eventually forgot what they were doing, too.”

     [From On Broken Wings]

     It’s possible, though unlikely, that the FBI’s public history has been a conscious attempt by persons in power to con the American people. It’s more likely that recent con artists in the corridors of power, having noted how successful the campaign has been to promote the FBI as the ultimately trustworthy law-enforcement agency, decided to infiltrate, colonize, and corrupt it as the Left has done to the education, entertainment, and communications industries. There can be no doubt that “something big” – the absolute, permanent subornation of the American electoral process – is in play.

     The progression of the FBI from a relatively minor anti-bootlegging agency to a virtually unrestrained organization for investigation and “law enforcement” illustrates something everyone should keep in mind at all times:

Image Is Not Reality.

     The map is not the terrain. The reputation is not the person, or organization. The image is not the reality. Yet over a sufficiently long time, populated by a sufficient number of confirmations, we can cease to think of the image and the reality as distinct. We can co-identify them so deeply that the identification becomes subconscious. Persuading oneself to doubt the probity of the reality becomes almost as hard as doubting oneself: an undertaking of singular difficulty, to say nothing of the danger involved.

     But sometimes it’s a matter of preserving our sanity…or our Republic.

     Have a nice day.

URGENT NOTICE 2022-10-07

     Thanks to Kenny “Wirecutter” Lane, I have just become aware of utterly unacceptable changes to PayPal’s Acceptable Use terms:

You may not use the PayPal service for activities that:
1. violate any law, statute, ordinance or regulation.
2. relate to transactions involving (a) narcotics, steroids, certain controlled substances or other products that present a risk to consumer safety, (b) drug paraphernalia, (c) cigarettes, (d) items that encourage, promote, facilitate or instruct others to engage in illegal activity, (e) stolen goods including digital and virtual goods, (f) the promotion of hate, violence, racial or other forms of intolerance that is discriminatory or the financial exploitation of a crime, (g) items that are considered obscene, (h) items that infringe or violate any copyright, trademark, right of publicity or privacy or any other proprietary right under the laws of any jurisdiction, (i) certain sexually oriented materials or services, (j) ammunition, firearms, or certain firearm parts or accessories, or (k) certain weapons or knives regulated under applicable law.
3. relate to transactions that (a) show the personal information of third parties in violation of applicable law, (b) support pyramid or ponzi schemes, matrix programs, other “get rich quick” schemes or certain multi-level marketing programs, (c) are associated with purchases of annuities or lottery contracts, layaway systems, off-shore banking or transactions to finance or refinance debts funded by a credit card, (d) are for the sale of certain items before the seller has control or possession of the item, (e) are by payment processors to collect payments on behalf of merchants, (f) are associated with the sale of traveler’s checks or money orders, (g) involve currency exchanges or check cashing businesses, (h) involve certain credit repair, debt settlement services, credit transactions or insurance activities, or (i) involve offering or receiving payments for the purpose of bribery or corruption.
4. involve the sales of products or services identified by government agencies to have a high likelihood of being fraudulent.
5. involve the sending, posting, or publication of any messages, content, or materials that, in PayPal’s sole discretion, (a) are harmful, obscene, harassing, or objectionable, (b) depict or appear to depict nudity, sexual or other intimate activities, (c) depict or promote illegal drug use, (d) depict or promote violence, criminal activity, cruelty, or self-harm (e) depict, promote, or incite hatred or discrimination of protected groups or of individuals or groups based on protected characteristics (e.g. race, religion, gender or gender identity, sexual orientation, etc.) (f) present a risk to user safety or wellbeing, (g) are fraudulent, promote misinformation, or are unlawful, (h) infringe the privacy, intellectual property rights, or other proprietary rights of any party, or (i) are otherwise unfit for publication.
6. relate to transactions involving any activity that requires pre-approval without having obtained said approval.

     I added the emphasis, of course. Therefore, I am:

  • Removing the PayPal buttons from this site;
  • Terminating my PayPal account;
  • Looking into alternate arrangements for accepting payment for my novels.

     If I can’t find an acceptable payment processor for my books, I suppose I’ll just have to give them away. Concerning donations to Liberty’s Torch, no Gentle Reader should trouble himself. The site costs me very little to maintain, so keep the money, have a drink, and think of me.

     Thank you for your attention.

TEOTWAWKI Stuff

     I don’t write a great deal on this subject, but lately I’ve been getting the sense that the time has come to confront some harsh realities and some ugly possibilities. If you’re not in the mood for the subject this fine Friday morning, I promise that I’ll understand…but I am.

***

     The following video, which you may have seen before, is only a minute and a half long and deserves to be viewed in its entirety by everyone alive today:

     Dr. Christiansen’s point is of overwhelming importance. It echoes a statement by Rose Wilder Lane in her impassioned book The Discovery of Freedom:

     The real protection of life and property, always and everywhere, is the general recognition of the brotherhood of man. How much of the time is any American within sight of a policeman? Our lives and property are protected by the way nearly everyone feels about another person’s life and property.

     But whence cometh this notion of “the brotherhood of Man?” It’s not immediately obvious. Most of us can’t reason our way to it; we don’t have the intellectual horsepower. As Dr. Christiansen points out, most of us who hold to it acquire it through religious education, usually Christ’s Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

     (Yes, yes, Confucius, Hillel, and others essayed a weaker version: “Do not do unto others would you would not have them do unto you.” This is sometimes called the Brazen Rule. Christ’s Golden Rule is a transcendent advance over it. ‘Nuff said.)

     Do you have neighbors who are capable of overwhelming you? It doesn’t matter how, or how many. If you do, it’s likely that they could take whatever they wish from you and prevent you from doing anything about it. So why don’t they? Is it the fear of prosecution, or is it the deep-set conviction that to do so would be wrong?

***

     The celebrated Matt Bracken wrote this essay in 2012. The thematic lead-in is terrifying all by itself:

     It’s estimated that the average American home has less than two weeks of food on hand. In poor minority areas, it may be much less. What if a cascading economic crisis, even a temporary one, leads to millions of EBT (electronic benefit transfer) cards flashing nothing but ERROR? This could also be the result of deliberate sabotage by hackers, or other technical system failures. Alternatively, the government might pump endless digits into the cards in a hopeless attempt to outpace future hyperinflation. The government can order the supermarkets to honor the cards, and it can even set price controls, but history’s verdict is clear: If suppliers are paid only with worthless scrip or blinking digits, the food will stop.

     Mobs ransacking supermarkets and neighborhood grocery stores are a foreseeable consequence. Bracken gives a simple outline of the progression toward chaos:

  1. STEP ONE: FLASH MOB LOOTING: The ransacking of known food stores.
  2. NEXT STEP: FLASH MOB RIOTS: When there’s no food to steal, there’s still “acting out.”
  3. THE OFFICIAL POLICE RESPONSE TO FLASH MOB RIOTS: Here, Bracken sketches in a police state like unto that in The Running Man. However, he posits that it won’t be capable of reacting with the speed and coverage required. He’s probably right.

     The end of the world? Not quite. Just the end of public order. But wait: there’s more!

***

     Public order is a many-faceted thing – and the facets are interdependent. Should something formerly as reliable as Americans’ food retailing system suddenly stop serving the underclasses, the rest of what we think of as public order will crumble quickly. Arthur Sido comments thus:

     When the rule of law ceases to exist, and damn son we are close to that point now, the worst dregs of society won’t hesitate for even a moment before they kick off an orgy of theft, assault, rape and murder. They are already mostly out of control but when the rule of law ceases to function, it won’t be long before the chaos really kicks off.

     This will of course be most pronounced in urban areas where the rule of law barely exists as it is. There will be a tipping point where the remaining cops will be overwhelmed and so outnumbered that they stop responding to calls at all. The ferals will sense this long before media reports it, the word will spread like wildfire among the ghetto-dwellers that they capped Da’Lishush and the cops never ever showed up.

     The important takeaway here is that the response time to WROL [“Without Rule Of Law”] will be far shorter for people operating on the fringe of lawlessness or already over the line anyway compared to suburbanites and others who fall under the umbrella of “law abiding.” Those who hold up “The Law” like a talisman to keep them safe will take much longer to abandon that mindset and that delay might be fatal.

     And he is definitely right.

***

     The above provides a good summary of what motivates the preparationist and survivalist communities. Note that persons in those communities are highly unlikely to live in or near to a significant city. It would undercut their preparations for security to be near a likely flash point. That is perfectly sensible, given their pessimistic view of things to come.

     Their view is only slightly more pessimistic than mine.

     We’ve already seen the localized disappearance of anything resembling public order. The “George Floyd riots” that destroyed large swathes of a couple dozen cities provided a mild taste of the chaos that would attend a breakdown of the food system. Imagine those riots expanded to swallow whole cities and their nearest suburbs, instead of a few districts in the cities’ cores. Imagine further that they’re not propelled by the ersatz anger of the George Floyd rioters, but by actual, belly-gnawing hunger.

     If the “forces of order” cannot respond, armed Americans, determined to protect what they value, will step into their place. Arthur Sido cites Glenn Reynolds to this effect:

     Police don’t actually protect law-abiding citizens from criminals so much as they protect criminals from the much-rougher justice they’d get in the absence of a legal system.

     Burglars would be hung from lampposts, and shoplifters would be beaten and tossed into the gutter if there were no police, as in fact happens in countries where there isn’t a reliable justice system and a civil-society culture that restrains vigilantism. Reminder to the criminal class: Ultimately, we’re not stuck in this country with you. You’re stuck in this country with us.

     And Reynolds is right and more than right: he is prescient.

***

     A grace note: It isn’t just food supply disruption that could bring about the disappearance of public order. Terry Jones at Issues and Insights notes another possibility: our biased, two-tiered justice system:

     One standard of justice for one group, but another for a different group? Even though that sounds distinctly un-American, many voters believe that’s happening today in America’s courts and legal venues. And it seems to be getting worse, the latest I&I/TIPP Poll suggests.

     In June, a Golden/TIPP Poll (TIPP is Issues & Insights’ polling partner) asked Americans if “There is a two-tiered system of justice in America depending on your political affiliation and ideology?” At the time, a sizable majority of 63% agreed, either “strongly” (28%) or “somewhat” (35%), with that statement. Only 17% disagreed, while 21% said they were “not sure.”

     But something intervened between that June 8-10 poll, the first time the question was asked, and the one taken from Sept. 7-9. Namely, the Aug. 8 raid on former President Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago estate by the FBI, which took documents from Trump’s presidency along with personal effects.

     The latest online survey of 1,277 voters found a significant increase from 63% to 71% of those saying they agreed that we now have a “two-tiered system of justice,” with 32% agreeing “strongly” and 39% agreeing “somewhat.”

     Just 15% disagreed, with 5% saying they disagreed strongly and 10% saying they disagreed somewhat. The “not sure” responses fell to 14% from the earlier 21% reading.

     When there are two de facto legal standards, one for the privileged and another for everyone else, there is no law as Americans understand it. The terrifying degree of concurrence indicated above need not grow much larger to being about a complete disaffiliation from “the law” among the “other than privileged” – and that could disrupt public order just as dramatically as riots among the “dregs” and “ferals.”

***

     This is grim stuff. I know that. And I hate to have it front and center in my thoughts. But I must, as I have a family to protect. If you’re in a similar position, perhaps it should be front and center in your thoughts, too.

     If you regard your district as “safe,” an evaluation that’s always relative, ponder these questions:

  • How far is it from a significant city? (Take “significant” to mean a population of 500,000 or more.)
  • How easy or hard is it to get here from there? (Consider private transportation only; looters and rioters seldom take mass transit.)
  • What concentrations of valuable resources exist in this district? (Concentrated value constitutes a target for looters and rioters.)
  • How many of my neighbors are armed and ready for disorder?
  • Are they sensible or Pollyannas?

     Allow me to close with a snippet from Robinson Jeffers:

“The world’s in a bad way, my man,
And bound to be worse before it mends;
Better lie up in the mountain here
Four or five centuries,
While the stars go over the lonely ocean,”
The old father of wild pigs,
Plowing the fallow on Mal Paso Mountain.

     That “old father of wild pigs” had the right idea.

Brokers And Their Biases

     Our economy knows many middlemen: persons and organizations that stand between the original producer of a good and the ultimate purchaser. These past few years, certain categories of middlemen have come under pressure, owing to the rise of the World Wide Web as a retailing tool. Consider how difficult it is for conventional travel agents to compete with the online airline-booking system, for example.

     The essence of middleman operations is the old prescription: Buy low, and sell high. The numbers dictate everything. This can lead to an unhealthful kind of myopia in a period in which the dollar itself has become questionable. We’re in such a period today.

     Financial guru John Pugsley, in his excellent book The Alpha Strategy, relates a case of this kind:

     As a further complication, the businessman tends to count inflationary gains on inventories as profit, when in reality they are not. I was reminded of this recently when, while on vacation, I went into a health food store to buy some honey. The jar on the shelf was priced at $1.00. As I was paying for it, the proprietress and I began to talk about rising prices. She noted how lucky she was to have bought a large supply of honey two years earlier when prices were much lower. The jar I held in my hand cost her only fifty cents, she noted, while now the same jar would cost her $1.10 at wholesale. Many other items in her inventory had risen proportionately. She then made the comment that she was thinking of expanding her little store, as profits had been good.
     She assumed that because she had purchased the honey for fifty cents and sold it to me for $1.00, that she was making a fifty-cent profit. I was a bit embarrassed to point out to her that she had not made a profit at all. She would have been better off not to have sold the honey to me, since now she had to take the dollar I gave her, plus a dime from her cash drawer, just to replace the jar on her shelf. She was going to lose a dime the moment she replenished her inventory. To bring her mistake vividly home to her, I suggested that she would be smart to immediately buy the honey back from me at $1.05, since that was five cents less than she could buy it for at the wholesaler. By her way of thinking, she would have bought all the jars on her shelves herself, made a fifty-cent profit, and then turned around and sold them back to herself at $1.10, and made another dime.
     Like many business owners, she did not understand that a profit is not the difference between original cost and selling price, but the difference between replacement cost and selling price.

     In that final paragraph, Pugsley has proclaimed the Gospel of the Enlightened Middleman…but there aren’t many who are that enlightened.

***

     I had a chat with my broker Bogdan just yesterday. Like many who have their savings in an Individual Retirement Account (IRA), I’ve seen a considerable decline in its paper value these past eighteen months. Equities of all sorts have declined, as anyone who even glances at the stock market reports will know. Coupled to the high inflation rate, this made me nervous. I asked Bogdan what might be done to brace against it.

     Bogdan was phlegmatic about it. His advice was to stay calm and ride it out – that there wasn’t much chance of losing everything, and that when equities rebound, I’d be glad I’d sat tight. That was probably the best advice anyone could give in these times. However, he related a tale of another client who’s decided to “go to cash:” i.e., to sell everything and merely hold dollars until the markets had settled. As this other client is very high net worth – much higher than I, at least – that had me shaking my head.

     The hell of it is that there are brokers counseling their clients to do that very thing: Sell equities that will probably recover in preference for an “asset” that’s already deteriorating swiftly. Good brokers call that “locking in your losses.” A broker who understands the difference between dollar-denominated price and asset value would not advise his client to do any such thing, even at a time when the dollar is relatively stable.

     Compare this to the preconceptions of the health-food store proprietress in the previous segment.

***

     Under the veil of Time, few things are certain. When it comes to finance, nothing is certain except fluctuation. True stability is almost unknown in the history of our economy. Thankfully, if you have patience enough (and stomach-lining enough) not to panic when things take a downturn, you can usually endure the negative fluctuations and come out better off in the aftermath.

     The main hazard in times such as these derives from a narrow focus. If you aren’t adequately diversified, as the gurus say, a fluctuation can wipe you out. Diversification lowers the probability of a big win, but it also protects against losing everything by betting on a single investment. The general understanding of this has risen in recent decades…yet there remain a large number of “investment counselors” who strive to steer the small investor toward “a hot thing.”

     Dollar-denominated gains from the hottest of hot things can be a complete illusion when high inflation is part of the mix. But the middleman’s bias — Numbers Uber Alles — coupled to the small investor’s natural desire to trust his “expert” advisor can lead him astray.

     It would be a big giveaway for such a broker to say “Trust me.” Unfortunately, most brokers are too smart to say it. What a pity.

An Interesting POV

A former Brooklyn Man, commenting on England. What he has to say about immigration from the LDCs – Lesser Developed Countries – is instructive.

Conversations

     They say laughter is the best medicine. I try not to argue with They; it tends to rebound unpleasantly. At the very least, laughter is an analgesic of sorts. It provides temporary relief from the ever-strengthening feeling that…well, that the only thing left to do is unpack the sniper rifle and the emergency stash of Oreo Double-Stufs® and climb the nearest clock tower.

     As is the practice at many households in contemporary America, here at the Fortress the first thing we do upon rising in the morning is to check our email. (All right, yes, we pee first, but that should go without saying, for more reasons than one.) And should the email dictate, the second thing is to check the front porch, which I have just done. It led to the following exchange:

CSO: What was on the porch?
FWP: A set of DVDs.

CSO: You’re still buying DVDs?
FWP: Why not? This one looks interesting. It’s a well-rated science-fiction series called Threshold. I figured it would be a welcome change from all the British murder mysteries.

CSO: I thought you liked them about as much as I do.
FWP: Oh, they’re okay, but night after night after night? Anyway, they’re making me fear for our cousins across the water. How much more depopulation can Britain stand?

CSO: Oh. And now that Britain’s out of the EU…
FWP: Exactly! Where’s the next crop of murder victims supposed to come from?

(</rimshot>)

Placer Mine

     [A short story for you today. Max Feinberg needs a breather. His laundromat business is lucrative but boring. His marriage is sound but irritating. His body is slowly turning to sludge. So he’s headed to Las Vegas for some restorative gambling and professional sex. The bonus he’ll receive will exceed his imagination. It will include a lesson about himself that he badly needs to learn. — FWP]

==<O>==

     Max Feinberg, king of the Los Angeles laundromat business, always vacationed alone. Yes, he was married. His wife Ruth did not care to accompany him. They loved each other, but if the facts be submitted to a candid world, she looked forward to his quarterly solo jaunts to Las Vegas quite as much as he. It provided the two of them with de-escalation time. Both of them regarded whatever amount Max lost in such a week as the price of divorce averted for another three months.
     He gambled at the Alhambra by preference. For one thing, he was known and welcomed there. For another, the food was good and the complimentary drinks weren’t watered. But the third thing was the decider: no matter whether he won or lost, or how much, no member of the Alhambra staff ever questioned his credit.
     When you routinely push six digits worth of chips across the tables in the course of a week, the last thing you want is to have your credit questioned. Of course it helps to make good on your losses. It helps even more if you lose heavily only slightly more often than the Sun rises in the West.
     On the October Sunday evening when our story opens, Max was of the opinion that the Sun might come up over the Pacific Ocean the very next morning.
     He decided it would be a night for baccarat, and headed for the thousand-dollar table the moment he stepped into the casino. The dealer, a tall, slender Vietnamese woman resplendent in the Alhambra’s crimson and gold, smiled brilliantly and gestured him to a seat immediately across from her. Her smile widened even further as he arranged his quarter million in chips before him.
     That was the high point of Max’s night. The dealer’s night went much better. The casino’s night went better still.
     Before Max had his first inkling that it might not be his night, a croupier had raked his entire quarter million into the casino’s coffers. By the time he realized that cutting short his night was the only way he could cut his losses, he’d added a hundred thousand more.
     He stalked out to his Lincoln in as near to a rage as he ever allowed himself. It had been his worst one-night loss ever. It wouldn’t come near to endangering him financially—few enterprises are as trouble-free and as steadily profitable as a southern California laundromat, and Max owned virtually every laundromat in Los Angeles County—but it would curtail his entertainment for the week to come. It might send him back to Beverly Hills, to Ruth, and to his terminally boring business without another stint at the tables. He berated himself savagely for having doubled down when he should have known that Lady Luck was not on his side. He pulled the flyer out from under his windshield wiper without looking at it and tossed it on the passenger seat before starting the engine and heading for the condominium that was his home away from home in Las Vegas.
     But perhaps he was being too harsh with himself. For how could he have known? It would have required the ability to predict the future, an ability no man had ever possessed. An ability that would render every mode of gambling obsolete.
     Surely it would be better to lose every now and then, rather than suffer such a catastrophe as that.

#

     The greater part of Monday had passed before Max chanced to leave his condominium again. Recriminations over the prior evening’s bullheadedness had muted his appetites for food, sex, and other diversions. Thus it was not until the acids began to erode the lining of his fifty-four-year-old stomach that he begrudged to descend from the twenty-third floor of the apartment tower and board his car to search for dinner. Before he started the engine, he glanced at the flyer he’d found on his windshield eighteen hours earlier.
     He’d found any number of flyers on his car in his years as a patron of the Vegas Strip. Most promoted the services of a brothel, an industry whose trade benefited as much as that of the casinos from overoptimistic gamblers. The pleasures of the flesh will often solace an aching wallet, and Max Feinberg was no stranger to their custom. But a bordello’s flyer is normally a flashy item, brightly colored and bedecked with snapshots of the young women whose charms could be found within. This one was anything but flashy. It bore only a simple message, centered on the page in twelve-point type:
    
Placer Mine

I pick placers at Pimlico, Belmont, and Yonkers.
And I am never, ever wrong.
My website is https://placer-mine.com
Enter the code MF42J for one day’s free access.
Try it and see.

     There was nothing more.
     Max put it aside and headed for his favorite Chinese restaurant. Perhaps some moo shu pork would help to assuage his anger at himself. At any rate, it would quiet the rumblings in his belly.

#

     Max parked in the garage beneath the condominium tower, released himself from his seat belt, started to exit his Lincoln, and stopped. He turned toward the flyer and glanced at it a second time.

And I am never, ever wrong.

     One day’s free access.
     What’s the risk? Either he’s full of it, which I’ll know from the results, or he’ll have something worth investigating further…which I’ll know from the results.

     The psychology of the gambling enthusiast, as well studied as it is, is not yet well enough understood to explain for the rest of us why such a person cannot resist the lure of an untried game. Even a phony game can exert an irresistible pull on the gambler’s mind. Max Feinberg’s ethics were not ironclad. He was drawn to the possibilities of a good scam as a trout is drawn to a fly afloat on the surface of the river.
     It almost didn’t matter whether the operator of the “Placer Mine” could do what he claimed. The novelty of the come-on and the possible applications to other sorts of scams were too inviting. Max would try it. And for free…well, what could he lose?
     I lost plenty last night. I’ll take this clown’s freebie. At least it’ll keep me from losing lots more tonight. I’ll just take down his picks and check them against tomorrow’s results.
     I don’t have to bet a dime.

     But he would.
     The psychology of the gambler is well enough understood for anyone to predict that.

#

     Before he’d retired for the night, Max had gone to https://placer-mine.com, had entered the magic code when prompted, and had taken down the names and jockeys of twenty-four horses, eight at each of the three racetracks, the site had predicted would place in the races to be run the next day. He’d debated with himself the folly of laying large bets on the site’s predictions for nearly an hour before calling the Alhambra and putting a benjamin on each horse, to place.
     A casino “sales executive” took Max’s call and his bets and gave him twenty-four confirmation numbers. There was a distinct note of wonder in the executive’s voice throughout the exchange. Max wasn’t a ponies man. He’d always preferred the fall of the cards, games where a knowledge of the odds and a certain wry pessimism would give a man an edge over hungrier, more optimistic players. Betting on the horses marked a significant departure from his usual practices.
     Upon the instant the call ended, Max undressed himself, slid into bed, and turned off the lights. He emptied his mind of all thoughts but sleep. Surely there would be more than enough to think about tomorrow…especially if his bets should pay off.
#

     Max rose to a beautiful October Tuesday morning, showered and dressed for a day of leisure, and ordered breakfast sent up to him from the restaurant on the tower’s ground floor. He took his pancakes and sausages to the table on his bedroom balcony and enjoyed them in concert with the sight of the city glimmering below. When ten o’clock Pacific time had arrived, Max fetched his laptop, set it before him, and awaited the first returns from Belmont Raceway, one eye on the list of second-place finishers predicted by Placer Mine.
     The horse the site had picked to place in the first race came in second. The payoff was 3.43 to 1.
     The site’s second-race pick also placed. The payoff was 2.73 to 1.
     The site’s third-race pick also placed. The payoff was 3.05 to 1.
     It went on that way through the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh races. By the time the eighth race was scheduled to start, Max could no longer sit. His heart beat faster than it had since his first kiss.
     The eighth-race pick placed. The payoff was 2.98 to 1.
     Eight races, eight forecasts, eight placers.
     Max swiftly went to the sites for Pimlico and Yonkers. There too, all eight of the placers were the horses Placer Mine had selected to finish second.
     Twenty-four races, twenty-four forecasts, twenty-four placers.
     One hundred percent predictive accuracy.
     Max had won slightly more than eighty-two hundred dollars.
     How?
     Nobody can fix twenty-four races at three widely separated tracks. Even if it were possible, he’d never let the information get out!

     But there it was.
     He immediately went to Placer Mine and re-entered the MF42J code. The site’s nondescript front page was immediately overlaid with a dialog box:

Your one-day trial has expired.
Further access will cost you $1000 per day,
Payable in advance.
I accept MasterCard, Visa, and Discover.

     Max scurried for his wallet.

#

     The fantastic run of Placer Mine continued uninterrupted.
     Each evening Max went to the site, paid $1000 for the privilege, and collected the names of twenty-four horses. Immediately thereafter he called the Alhambra and placed twenty-four bets. With each day he increased the size of his wagers. On the subsequent day he would check the websites for the three racetracks, find that all his horses had placed as predicted, and would call the Alhambra to confirm his winnings. By Saturday afternoon, he had recouped the whole of his three hundred fifty thousand dollar loss of Sunday night, and was a hundred eighty-eight thousand dollars in the black.
     It left him vaguely dissatisfied.
     Gamblers dislike to lose, but they dislike a sure thing–a proven sure thing–almost as much. The gambler lives for the thrill that comes with risk. He savors his sense of himself as an adventurer, pitted against the capricious gods of Chance. He relishes the electric tension that comes from staking his fate on the fall of the cards, the roll of the dice, or the anticipation as the little steel marble chooses in which slot to land. He wants to win, but he yearns even more for the thrill of the stake–and the higher, the better.
     Yet Max was about to return to Beverly Hills, to Ruth, to his laundromat chain, and to the innumerable nuisances to which a man of late middle age, his looks gone, his strength waning, and his erections dependent on a drug must submit, having played a sure thing and nothing but a sure thing from one end of his breather to the other.
     He called the Alhambra once more to check his balance.
#

     The sun was about to set and Max had just walked into the casino when he heard his name being called.
     “Hey, Max! Max Feinberg!”
     He turned to his right to see a short, portly figure with a fiftyish face and a fringe of graying hair trotting toward him. The face was vaguely familiar, so he stuck out a hand.
     “How are you doing…?”
     “Solly, Solly Ezekiel, the developer from Denver,” the man said as he shook Max’s hand. “We connected about a year ago over at the craps table. You were on a hot streak, and I muttered about not being able to roll anything but box cars, remember?”
     Max grinned. “I remember now. We had dinner together, and then some laughs at that…what was it called?”
     “The Cooler,” Solly said. “Gorgeous girls, but you know, I can’t remember anything else about them.”
     Max chuckled. “My friend, that’s not a bug, that’s a feature. You doing okay?”
     “Yeah!” Solly broke out in a huge grin. “I dropped a small fortune Sunday night. It left me pretty pissed, but when I got to my car there was this flyer on it—”
     Max went at once to full alert. “For Placer Mine?”
     Solly’s eyes went wide. “You got it too?”
     Max nodded. “Pretty hot stuff, eh?”
     Solly nodded. “I’m nearly two hundred grand in the black on his picks. But why placers? He can’t be fixing races at three tracks simultaneously. If he’s that good a handicapper, why doesn’t he predict the winners?”
     It was the question Max had resisted asking himself since Tuesday’s returns. It acted like a seed crystal, compelling all the too-weird-to-contemplate notions he’d entertained and dismissed to coalesce around it and cling to it.
     Fixing races…
     People who fix races always concentrate on the winner. They want a particular horse to win the race. They couldn’t care less who comes in second…which is why they get caught. But a guy who can fix the second place finisher would tend to go unnoticed. Who in the racing world bothers to look at the betting patterns of guys who put their money on placers?
     It’s perfect. Placers pay well, but no one ever gives them a second look.
     Maybe he can fix twenty-four races at three separate tracks in twenty-four hours. Maybe he has help at all three tracks who are in on the game. After all, how else could he pull this off?
     But why is he doing this? Is he using our grand a day to build up a stake so he can do his own betting…after which he’ll cut the rest of us off? How many of us are there, anyway?

     “Solly,” he said, “have you had dinner?”
#

     It developed that Solly had a friend, and the friend had a friend who was razor-sharp about computers, Internet communications, and the World Wide Web. After ten thousand dollars in U.S. green had been waved under his nose, the friend of a friend was quite amenable to a bit of research.
     Every website, with very few exceptions, must have what‘s called a “fixed IP address.” Every fixed IP address that’s been assigned to a particular user is registered with a big, impersonal company that does nothing but track who owns which IP address and what he does with it. And it doesn’t take much to reverse-track a website’s URL to an IP address, and thence to the name and physical address of the very human being to whom it was assigned.
     The very human being to whom https://placer-mine.com and the associated IP address were registered was listed as living in northern Nevada, about a three hour drive from the City of Sin. The name he’d given was, to neither Max’s nor Solly’s surprise, John Q. Smith.
     They piled into Max’s rented Lincoln and were speeding northward within a minute after paying, thanking, and bidding farewell to the friend of a friend.
     The three hour drive was conducted in almost perfect silence. There was one exchange of thoughts.
     “Max, what are we going to ask this guy?”
     “I don’t know. I just have to…you know. Before I go back to L.A.”
     “Yeah. Me too.”
     Max steered the big Lincoln off I-80, past a wholly conventional housing development, and through a final sweeping curve in the desert to arrive at a large trailer park. The nondescript lot was nothing but sand and several dozen single-wide trailers. He glanced at the address the computer jockey had found for them. They had arrived.
     They debarked from the Lincoln in silence.
     “How will we know which one?” Solly said.
     Max shook his head.
     They went from one trailer to the next for more than an hour, knocking discreetly on doors, asking gentle questions and politely thanking those who answered them, before they happened upon their target.
     They knew it was their target from a most unambiguous indicator. The door of the trailer bore a slice of oak tag that said “Welcome, Max and Solly!”
     The door to the trailer was unlocked. Max opened it and peered cautiously inside.
     The trailer was all but completely empty. Its sole contents were a small television set hooked to an old videotape player.
     “Max…”
     “Easy, Solly.” Max stepped into the trailer and beckoned to Solly to follow him. A swift glance around confirmed that there were no other movable items in the structure. He reached for the wall switch nearest the door and flicked it.
     The television and videotape player came to life. Seconds later the image of a tall, sparely built man in casual clothes appeared on the television screen. They dropped into crouches to watch and listen.
     “Hello, Max. Hello, Solly,” the figure said. “You’re the first to decide that even if you weren’t going to kill it, at the very least you wanted to meet the goose who was laying the golden eggs. Well, that’s me, and as you’ve come a fairly long way to reach this point, I suppose I’ll explain it all to you.
     “You’ve probably been asking yourselves several questions. ‘Why is he doing this? How is he doing this? Why doesn’t he do his own betting and keep the winnings, rather than sharing his knowledge with us? Speaking of us, how many of us are there? And of course, if he can predict placers, why not winners?’ At least, those are the questions I’d be asking myself in your position. I’ll answer them in reverse order.
     “First, yes, I can predict winners. But winners are more conspicuous than placers, and they become much more conspicuous when an identifiable group of high-stakes bettors wins on them over and over again. The group in which I included you is small enough and well enough known that it would eventually draw a lot of attention neither you nor I would want.
     “Second, there are only thirty-two of you: you two and thirty others. You all gamble habitually at one of four Vegas casinos. You all received your invitations to Placer Mine on Sunday night. And you all patronized the site continuously from Monday through Saturday, for which service I earned a total of a hundred sixty thousand dollars without having to make myself conspicuous by placing a bet.
     “There’s the third answer you’re waiting for: why I sell my knowledge to you and thirty other high rollers rather than keep it to myself. I can’t afford to be conspicuous. What I’ve learned how to do would be of infinite value to a lot of very nasty players. That includes governments, and there’s nothing I hate more than governments. So I resolved to collect your access fees rather than to place wagers of my own, which would inevitably have exposed me to those nasty sorts.
     “With that we’ve arrived at the key question, the one that really has your gears grinding: how do I do it? It’s quite simple, really: I have a chronoscope, a device that allows me to see forward in time. It has its limits—I can’t look forward more than about seventy-two hours, and the geographical range and scope of the device are about the same as that of a good spyglass—but for collecting the information you’ve made use of, it’s ideal. So every afternoon, I drive down to Vegas and use my device to scan the horseracing results boards twenty-four hours ahead. And of course, the device also allows me to keep track of my customers, which is how I know that you, Max, and you, Solly, are the first to puzzle out my name and address.
     “Why am I doing this? For the money, of course. I don’t need vast riches, just enough to support myself and to fund my researches. And I’m aware of the danger inherent in the big score, the sudden killing that makes others sit up and take notice. I have no desire to be a celebrity, and the things I’ve learned about time would be fantastically dangerous in any hands but mine, so I decided to reap my revenues in a quieter, less attention-grabbing fashion.
     “So there you have it, gentlemen. Of course I’ll be gone and the site will have been shut down by the time you get here. I made no promises of perpetual access. Anyway, leaving the site up for any great length of time would attract exactly the attention I’ve resolved to avoid. So I hope you’ve made good use of it, but it’s over and this is good-bye.
     “I do have a parting gift for you. Consider it a door prize for being the first to find me. The two trailers next to mine belong to a pair of perfectly delightful young ladies. The one to the east is a blonde. The one to the west is a redhead. They’re both ‘in the trade,’ as they say here in Nevada, and I’ve already prepaid them for services to be rendered to you two. Just decide which of you will go to which, give your names, and accept their ministrations with my compliments.”
     The figure on the screen started to turn away, paused, and faced the camera once again.
     “Oh, and in case you were wondering, my name really is John Q. Smith. Farewell, gentlemen.”
     The screen went blank.
     Max turned to Solly. “I’d never have guessed.”
     “Me neither,” Solly said. “But we recouped our losses and made a few bucks, and he’s right that he never promised us a moonshot, so I guess we’ve got nothing to complain about. Anyway, we have an important decision in front of us.”
     “Hm?”
     “Red or blonde?”
     Max chuckled. “I’ll take the blonde.”
     “Good. I’ve always wanted to try a redhead.”

#

     Max invited Solly to join him for a Sunday evening farewell dinner in the Alhambra’s restaurant. Max was enjoying a generous portion of tender veal Florentine and Solly was finishing off a nice filet mignon when Solly asked the question Max had awaited since their return to Vegas.
     “Max, why us? I mean, with all the big shots running around this town who could buy us and sell us—”
     “Because he’s a nice guy,” Max said.
     “Hm?”
     “I can’t prove it,” Max said as he forked up a bite of spinach, “but I’d bet that all his customers are guys who dropped a pile Sunday night, just like us. Maybe Smith’s a retired gambler himself. Maybe he knows how bad it stings to lose like that, and as long as he was selling a sure thing, he might as well sell it to guys who could use a little salve for their wounds.” He popped the spinach into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and set down his fork. “Besides, you heard him. He wasn’t out for a killing, so why go for the really big fish when guys like us’ll do just fine?”
     “You don’t think maybe he was selling the really high rollers something else? Something worth even more?”
     “Doubt it.” Max dabbed his lips with his napkin. “One guy, one grift. Too easy to get in over your head if you try to play too many games at once. That’s why I always stuck to laundromats. They’re boring, but I know them, and they pay steady. Why go looking for trouble?” He grinned. “I can get into enough of that here.”
     “Good point. Real estate’s the same.” Solly smirked ruefully and looked off. “But I don’t think I’ll be back here. Knowing there’s a guy somewhere who already knows where the ball’s gonna land takes the thrill out.”
     Max nodded. “I know what you mean. And you know, he might have had that in mind, too. Kind of a bonus.”
     “Maybe. But you know what I really want to know?”
     “Shoot.”
     Solly cocked an eyebrow. “How was your blonde?”
     Max chuckled. “Silk and velvet, my friend. Silk and velvet and sweet as the morning breeze. I didn’t even need a pill. How about your redhead?”
     “The same,” Solly said. “Max, just how much do you think Smith knew…knows about us?”
     “Enough to do us a lot of good. Does it matter?”
     “I guess not.”
     Max stuck his hand across the table, and Solly took it. The two beamed at one another in a quintessential male bonding moment.
     “He really is a nice guy, isn’t he?” Solly said.
     “You know it.”

==<O>==

Copyright © 2015 by Francis W. Porretto. All Rights Reserved Worldwide.

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Targets

     When the lead is flying, the number-one priority is not to be a target. But sometimes there’s no way to avoid it.

     I have a difficult topic to address today for two reasons. The first is the terror inherent in the subject: a potential nuclear war. The second is that the indicators suggest that everything I once believed about strategic analysis has been turned on its head. The combination makes for a great reluctance to go further. But if I can’t, who could?

     Grit your teeth, Gentle Reader. From here forward, the going will be maximally rocky.

***

     All strategic analysis begins with an assumption: that for each potential participant in a possible war, there is some maximum price he would be willing to pay at each stage prior to the actual clash of arms:

  1. Normal diplomatic intercourse;
  2. Marker-laying;
  3. “Saber-rattling;”
  4. Amassing allies;
  5. Mobilization and positioning;

     While it’s not always obvious, there are costs at each stage. Some of those costs are immediate and unavoidable; the others manifest as risks. A potential belligerent must decide what he’s willing to spend and willing to gamble.

     While the conflict in Ukraine is a war in its own right, it’s also where the above progression toward a far deadlier conflict is testing the resolve and the “wallet” of the potential belligerents. The first three stages are over; the fourth is near to completion. Neither the U.S. / NATO combination nor the Russian Federation has backed off to date. Indeed, Vladimir Putin has entered the fifth stage, by mobilizing part of his nuclear submarine fleet and positioning nuclear-capable bombers at the edge of his western border with Ukraine. He’s waiting for us to raise, call, or fold.

     This is the period of maximum danger. Should Team Blue also begin to mobilize, the pressure will be on both our and Team Red’s triggers. The questions thereafter would be:

  • Who will strike first?
  • What will he strike?

     Neither Blue nor Red wants to strike first, for geopolitical reasons that hearken back to World War I. But neither side wants to back down, either: the American-led alliance, because it would cost the U.S. its dominance over European geopolitics; the Russian Federation, because it still feels the humiliation of having lost the Cold War. For a de-escalation to occur, there must be a negotiated settlement to the Ukraine war to which both sides can agree without losing face. The likelihood of such a settlement has declined with each step the two sides have taken.

     If the war does mushroom to embrace the U.S. and the larger Russian Federation, target selection becomes the question of the hour.

***

     This morning, Divemedic mentions a critical consideration:

     The second possibility is that we have backed Putin into a corner where he feels has is about to be tossed from power in the Russian way, meaning a bullet to the head. After all, we are shutting down the Russian economy. His own citizens are starting to riot and push back. All he needs to do in order to join the Romanovs in their retirement villa is maintain the status quo. Having little to lose, he is actually planning on using nukes. If that is what he is up to, and it is certainly possible, then there are a couple of ways that I see him doing this. He will either attack Ukraine under the assumption that the other NATO countries will do nothing (because our leaders are senile and/or cowardly pussies), or he will do it in conjunction with a decapitation strike.

     In our time, an autocrat must be aware of the vindictiveness of his enemies – and Vladimir Putin is a classic autocrat. There is no power in Russia that does not answer to him. As I wrote in Shadow of a Sword:

     Living in the public eye had always entailed increased risk. Historically, whenever some troublemaker had roused the rabble to a greater pitch than the Establishment of that time and place could tolerate, it had disposed of him with no compunction and extreme prejudice. There were parts of the world where that was still the inevitable price of rising to power—places where a dismissal from high office was always administered with high-velocity lead. Power seekers in such lands arrived in their palaces with their death warrants already signed and sealed; they merely awaited delivery.

     An autocrat who senses that there’s a target on his back will be inclined to target whoever has caused it to settle on him: in this case, the Usurper Regime in these United States, figureheaded by Joseph Biden. He would strive to eliminate the Usurpers themselves, betting that with the elimination of the Regime the threat to him personally would fade away.

     Historically, strategic analysts have predicted that the nation that launches a first nuclear strike would aim it at the other side’s nuclear forces: a counterforce targeting pattern, intended to deprive the enemy of his ability to inflict reciprocal damage. Today that doesn’t seem to be the case. The Russian Federation is not the Soviet Union, wherein power was dispersed among the members of the Central Committee and the larger nomenklatura, and consensus sought in great matters. Vladimir Putin’s decisions require no ratification from the Duma, other than the purely cosmetic.

     The detection of a Russian launch would almost automatically trigger a countervalue response – a launch against Russian cities and critical economic sites – from the U.S. The American deterrent system is almost incapable of anything else, owing to the “Single Integrated Operational Plan” (SIOP) that has dominated American strategic doctrine since the Sixties. Herman Kahn once commented on this: “Gentlemen, you don’t have a war plan. You have a war orgasm.”

     A countervalue launch from the U.S. would be answered by a countervalue launch from Russia.

***

     Threat analysis has long overlooked the emotional and psychological aspects of international dealing. It’s assumed greater rationality than many regimes have exhibited. More to the point of today’s situation, it’s assumed an abiding, compelling love of country among those who rule.

     It would be comforting to assume that Vladimir Putin loves Russia enough to risk being toppled from power for his decisions. That might be the case, but it’s not possible to know it with high confidence. However – and most unfortunately – we cannot assume that the Usurpers love America enough to take that risk. They’ve struggled for supremacy for decades. They were willing to steal a national election blatantly, in full view of the nation, to get it.

     Would they risk their destruction, and the destruction of much of our country, in preference to backing down?

Hatred Of Children

     If you think for a living – I do – you’re constantly on the lookout for unities: themes that make comprehensive logical sense of what’s happening around you. You desperately want to find such themes, because without them, there’s little chance of making sense of the balls of chaos we call society and politics. And of course, what you can’t make sense of is very hard to cope with, much less change.

     (For reasons of “equal time,” I will mention that this contrasts sharply with the C.S.O.’s pronouncement on ontological matters, which she issued early on in our acquaintance: “Shit happens. Get used to it.” Why yes, she does have a degree in philosophy. However did you guess?)

     From here I could continue in several directions, but from the title you know which one I’ve chosen to address this morning. Have a few links:

     I’ve written on other occasions that abortion is the Left’s sacrament, the issue that they will defend to the death: our death, not theirs. Combine their abortion hysteria with their promotion of homosexuality and transgenderism, their celebration of consequence-free promiscuity, their hostility toward the “wife, mother, and homemaker” style of femininity, and their insistence on “women as rulers.” What pops out of the slot isn’t pro-natal. It’s resolutely anti-natal.

     (Whoops! I almost forgot the Left’s drive to normalize pedophilia! Perhaps my memory was dimmed by my outrage. It happens now and then.)

     If you’re against the production of children, you’re unlikely to regard already-born children with favor. And indeed, as Andrea “Bookworm” Widburg notes, whenever the Democrats address children, it’s to damage them:

     Democrats have told black children that the laws are racist and police are evil. The result is that a generation of Black children believes that a life of criminality is a fight against racism. Sure, it’s fun to raid a Wawa with your friends, but these same young people will find themselves in prison when law and order are eventually restored (as they must be for repression always follows anarchy) or, worse, on the receiving end of a bullet.

     Democrats have told all children that gender is meaningless, creating a generation of confused young people that are alienated from their own bodies and biological realities. The results are tragic. The results are things only a pedophile could love…

     Democrats have encouraged parents from third-world countries to send their children over the border. The result is sex trafficking.

     Democrats have encouraged decriminalizing pot and other drugs. The result is a generation of young people mired in substance abuse, including just the lethargy and apathy of pot.

     Democrats have supported TikTok (which Trump tried to cancel). The Chinese-run platform is now encouraging young Americans to stop working or to do a minimal amount of work.

     (No one likes to talk about the damage to inter-generational bonds being done by female careerism, either. Just you wait, tootsie. You’d better hope that when you get to my age, you’re still strong and healthy. Whatever kids you’ve produced aren’t likely to want to look after you in your dotage.)

     I could go on, but the pattern is far too clear to require it. Besides, my Gentle Readers are a bright bunch. Many have probably already caught on to The Plan.

  • The Left hates itself.
  • But admitting that hurts. Therefore, the Left prefers to hate you.
  • But doing anything about that is too much like work. So the Left attacks your progeny.
  • What’s that? You’re pregnant? No problem! We have a range of options, including abortion. Choose as you prefer!
  • You went and had the BLEEP!ing kid, did you? Well, we can always turn him into a homosexual or a “transgender.”
  • Failing that, we’ll surround him with members of the opposite sex who have no interest in anything but money, material things, and orgasms!

     And there was much rejoicing…among those who hate themselves, et cetera.

     To quote Dave Barry: No, I am not making this up. The evidence is all around you. Examine it and decide for yourself whether your Curmudgeon is a visionary or a hysteric. It won’t affect my bank balance either way.

     But do have a nice day.

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