The Left’s Only Sound Play

Like how comedians must stick to particulars to be funny, the Left must stick to generalities to regain power.

The Left’s only sound play is to claim as a baseline, “Well, whichever Republican was elected after Biden would be perceived as doing well, comparatively.”

This is sound because it is essentially true, it concedes reality, and, importantly, it provides the currently missing foundation for the future. It also undercuts the “cult of Trump” with exacting precision, no small desire of the Left, though not essential to the cause. For readers with the ability to see nuance, it also offers a distracting element. No one is talking anymore about whether Trump is even a Republican. But the Left should want that debate to resume because any interruption of focus counts in the quest for power.

Will the Left use such sage advice? Of course not. Why not? Because they, as we all saw for four years, are not of sound mind.

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Why share such sage advice? Why spend time considering it? Because I desire the history books (which will draw heavily from this blog…) to show how even the meekest of those with common sense knew what the Left needed to do, but the Left was intrinsically weak.

Examples of Good Obituary Lines (Fiction)

He could go weeks without eating a vegetable or piece of fruit, and I don’t believe he ever ate more than two whole apples, bananas, or any other fruit in a single day for his entire life.

When she was four, she developed a habit of interrupting every member of her family—and most strangers—whenever she felt like it.

He could read the comments on YouTube for hours without ever finding motivation to give more than a thumbs up.

After graduating college and getting a job, he found it impossible to order from Subway without getting cookies.

Sometimes, when reading a book by himself, he would laugh out loud at an irrelevant idea that came to mind.

He never wore a hat in the sanctuary.

She often got irrationally angry the moment someone started talking—and sometimes just at the sight of certain people.

He could not leave a campground without uttering, “How can you tell the Boy Scouts have been here? You can’t!”

She hated being reminded of anything she ever said.

Nobody who had received a gift from her would have guessed it, but she was never taught how to wrap presents.

Not long after hearing a good idea, he routinely could be found sharing it, along with an original—and untrue—story behind how he thought of it, with others.

He started his habit of daily exercise the same week that he ended it—and was happier for it.

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Do you see? The obituaries or eulogies need to be filled with love. When you say something that is A. Untrue and B. General (like, “He loved life” or “He was loved by all”) you merely show that you didn’t even know the deceased, that you didn’t ever notice them even.

Do better. We all deserve it.

Reading Log and a Note on the Most Important Part of an Immigrant’s Education

I’ve completed these since the last group, but also have been reading math essays and have begun Milton’s Paradise Lost (which so far is much more palatable than Dante’s Divine Comedy).

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As to the education of immigrants, I can’t help but think as I read American history (mostly pre-20th century), “I have literally no connection to these events that stir my feelings so.”

And that’s when it hits me. As I, like you, am constantly bombarded with all this “immigrant immigrant immigrant” news, as I, very different from you, have married an immigrant and have an immigrant step-son, I cannot but conclude that the most important part of their training must be American history. Stop filling someone’s life with the nonsense about “you’re not from here” or “you should be proud of whichever country you left”. Instead, fill it with American History in a, “This is who you are,” mindset. America is unique. They need to know what that means—and it isn’t obvious or intuitive.

Naturally, a marketable skill should be taught as well, but even then, I cannot place this skill above learning who you are—an American.

Stuck On Trump’s Instinctive DEI Claim

It felt forced to me when Trump first claimed “DEI” was behind the mid-air collision. Something like, “Yeah, yeah. We know you want to conclusively put DEI to bed. But these investigations take time and this is too soon.”

Soon after, however, I began to wonder, “Crap. Was it a woman pilot? Or a minority? Sucks to be them.” Then we learned, in as terrible a display of thoughtless PR as ever, that it was a woman, and that she was a lesbian who clearly had not been inspired to be a military pilot after watching Top Gun or Top Gun:Maverick.

Now, a day after the facts came out, I can’t help but admit that Trump has some sort of Boss Level instincts. I know, I know. Fanboys and he have made this claim for years. But for years, I had been assuming he had someone filtering him or prodding him etc. My mistake. The precise moment I realized my mistake was when I saw that footage of him reacting to Harris’ DNC speech in real-time with a room full of his cabinet/staff. There was no filter, there was no prod. He actually operates on his instincts—seemingly constantly.

This “DEI” claim was more of the same, then. But this time it is remarkable to me because of the speed. Mid-air collisions should never happen. And they don’t happen very often. So when, presumably, he was informed it was a lesbian, low-hour pilot and put together that DEI could be smashed onto the mid-air in a way that literally saves future lives, he ran with it—no need to run it through a “steel man” exercise or anything.

The Golden Age of America started with the last mid-air collision, itself the last aircraft piloted by a DEI hire (hopefully).

The point is not, “Did I persuade you Trump is right?” The point is, “Do you see the instincts on this guy?” As a pilot who does, from time to time, base my decision solely on instinct, I can admit that Trump’s use of instinct is remarkable. And I hope that, as a result, all pilots see-and-avoid from now on.

We Must Do Better at Describing the Dead

Anyone else absolutely annoyed at the statements about the recently deceased pilots?

I have posted on this topic many times and my dander is up again, naturally.

There is a paradox. We seem afraid of telling a lie about a dead person, presumably because it would be unfair, and at precisely the same time, we have no sense of fairness.

“He was young.” Wow!

“He was an amazing person.” By golly!

“She was a bright star.” No shit!

“No one dreamed bigger or worked harder.” Truly!

Here’s my ask: please talk with people who may feel like describing you after you die. Give them some boundaries. I am not kidding. I have written out something and given it to my mom.

I refuse to believe this paradox and other difficulties are based on the whiny, “It’s uncomfortable to talk about.” No, it’s not. You’re just out of touch in the main and think you are somehow exempt from the only sure thing—another paradox.

In short, we mortals, all of us, live in a world where Michael Jackson and a lesbo DEI nut that crashed into an enormous and well-lit plane (located where every swinging dick on the earth would be right to always expect a plane to be ((final approach to a runway))) are both described as celestial matter. How ‘bout, no.

Pumbaa’s Error

“Oh. I always thought they were balls of gas burning billions of miles away.”

How does Disney create the idea that Simba’s animism (the stars are spirits of the dead) is the right astronomical view?

Timon and Pumbaa laugh his notion off, and yet every movie watcher walks out of the theater happy that Simba believed his dad and the subsequent delusional interpretation of one bright night’s dynamic weather.

It all starts with Pumbaa’s error.

Imagine with me if the writer had an ounce of astronomy training.

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Pumbaa: Hey, Timon, ever wonder what those sparkly dots are up there?

Timon: Pumbaa, I don’t wonder; I know.

Pumbaa: Oh. What are they?

Timon: They’re fireflies. Fireflies that, uh… got stuck up on that big bluish-black thing.

Pumbaa: Oh, gee. I always thought, when their light was analyzed with prisms, they were determined to be ever-changing balls of the very same elements that make up our world, acting, in fact, under the same forces and for the same reasons which carry both the sound of my voice to you but not much farther and the heat of this desert sand to our feet but not up our legs—but were like really far away and surrounded by LOTS of empty space.

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Can you even imagine the ludicrous family tradition of past kings looking down following such a silly guess by the warthog?

No, no you cannot.

It’s not merely a killjoy, either. Plenty of ways to make the movie still work. Mufasa can talk about how his tribe had overcome great difficulties and that it took ridding themselves of envy and sabotage—and learning from whoever had something obviously better to contribute. And then Simba can simply remember this confirmable truth after a rebellious and disastrous few years of life with the poor—I mean—the wild animals.

On the Mid-Air in DC

Tragic. It is tragic. Utterly tragic.

From a pilot, from your trusted pilot, here’s how this happens.

Firstly, I was taught very early on, “100% of mid-air collisions never see each other.” (If you’re slow—this witty math-based proverb merely implies there are no kamikaze’s.)

Secondly, I have been on flights where the aircraft commander has said, “*Visual* (meaning “I have the traffic/plane/helicopter in sight)” but he DID NOT YET have the traffic in sight. One was in Balad, Iraq, then the second busiest airspace in Earth, and we “split” a formation of Chinooks (which any pilot knows is a clear display of utter incompetence as well as lucky as all hell to have survived). In other words, there is some great temptation to trust the system so completely, trust the “big sky” theory so wholly, trust the historical data of one’s experience that shows every single other time the situation resolves harmlessly so blindly, that you conclude to just “fib” a little (because you will see it ((and avoid it)) in short order) rather than inconvenience anyone. Seriously, the options are A. death or B. inconvenience.

And now they’re all dead.

Lastly, let’s skip to the end—because you faithful deserve the good stuff—the investigation will conclude (correctly) that it was 100% the army pilot’s fault. They may conclude some airspace changes or procedure changes are necessary—but you can’t let that distract you from the actual fault finding. The recording has the army pilot saying, “Have the CRJ in sight.” (You can hear this actual audio for yourself. See this guy at 4:25.)

It’s just tragic.

Re: The Drones. I Told You So!

I was right, naturally, but it wasn’t because I am a pilot. It was because I know how to listen. Here’s the original post that called ya’ll out as suckers. (It’s a pretty funny approach to the subject to me still; read it!)

https://petedeakon.com/2024/12/18/the-drones-are-operated-by-trolls/

And the important words from today, “…were authorized to be flown by the FAA for research and various other reasons. Many of these drones were also hobbyists—recreational and private individuals that enjoy flying drones. In time it got worse due to curiosity.”

I mean, I still feel like a million bucks cuz I was right!—especially because it sounds like I may be the lead writer on the conspiracy theory squad who gave her the script. I literally wrote, “And at this point I would drive out there and have a little fun with the morons, if only I had a drone.” Or as I decided to frame it for the MAGA crowd: “In time, it got worse due to curiosity.”

The Pathetic Way To Go

They were all in his bedroom.

His brother was the family’s steady anchor, permanently tarred to the deep floor of the ocean of unknown outcomes. He had flown in four years ago, without stopping—without even thinking—to even pack a carry-on. He had stayed bedside throughout the recent wars, throughout the fires, throughout the droughts, throughout the pestilence, throughout the famine. Nothing had moved him; nothing could move him. Nothing would move him. In the four years that had passed, he aged ten. He was worn threadbare. He was balding. He was broke. His wife had left him after the first year. His children hardly knew him. But he was there. And there he seemed destined to remain.

But it was his sister, whose lightest smile always seemed to be returned as though seen through the closed eyes, that wove the siblings together. It was his sister who fed both brothers, his sister who changed the sheets, his sister who replenished the water and flowers of well-wishers, his sister who put on a happy face—indeed never once betrayed an awareness that today wasn’t the best day.

And today, this day of days, was about to be the best day.

His mother and father had arrived last night, cutting short their long-delayed vacation to some distant paradise without hesitation. He was their son. They had only ever left his side, for the first time in years, after finding in his Bible a single page of scripture with a note indicating that “their happiness” was his “heaven”.

All his cousins and aunts and uncles had rushed to be there as soon as word had spread. It had not mattered to any how many planes, trains, boats, or cars it took. No matter the skyways and byways, no matter the cost, they were there.

His wife sobbed and sobbed. Her life was miserable before him and had been perfect with him. She did not know, she could not imagine how she would ever carry on after. So she wept, she cried, she sobbed, she cried, and finally she wept some more. Everyone who knew him and knew of him understood her pain.

The room went silent as his eldest daughter appeared in the doorway. No one could remember the last time he had heard, let alone seen, her. But somehow she knew. Somehow she came. The dim, flickering candlelight revealed the jewelry that had first confused her identity. But when she turned and tossed her backpack aside, the sweet jingle of countless keychains she had affixed, along with the rustle of laminated letters that hung from every zipper confirmed what all were hoping—after so many years away, she came.

His other children were still on their way. The current project that engaged the pair, the world’s two greatest, most creative, most motivated, and most delightful members, had necessitated their delay. In fact, it wasn’t until the world heard and fed the wildfire rumor of the gathering in that room—and for whom and wherefore—that the people pleaded, risking their own detriment by forestalling the work, for the siblings to now travel to where all knew their hearts already lay.

“He’s awake.”

The barely audible whisper was first heard by his sister, as she was handing a fresh coffee to its speaker, her weary, ever so weary, brother—one that never did arrive.

The porcelain mug’s landing on the plush carpet pronounced a soft sound at which his wife, the ever inconsolable and fairest of all to assume that noble title watchman, raised her tear-streaked face. When her fingers rose to wipe all evidence of unhappiness away, the visitors communicated the only news that such action could betray throughout the room as quick as light, yet as soft as feathers.

Right when his brother turned to repeat the announcement, his eyes landed on them. They had just arrived.

“Come! He’s awake!” He repeated as he motioned the children to come and directed the crowd to open a path.

“My dad!” his daughter said, her cheeks uncontrollably wetted with tears of joy.

“Father!” his son declared. Revealing a relationship that transcended time and space—indeed one that could not be rocked by consciousness itself—he added, “We did it! The world is saved.”

Seeing him seeming to make an attempt to raise his head, his brother said, “Rest. It’s no time to exert yourself, good brother.”

“As always, good brother,” our hero began, acknowledging their secret greeting, courageously and with a knowing smirk, one long-since absent and missed, “You’re wrong. It is time; for time is short.” His breathing was burdened with immeasurable truth.

In the history of time, the tides of all oceans had not swelled so much as to fill what all present saw pour forth from this dearest, this loyalist of companion’s eyes. Turning to the room, he cried with exuberance so far only matched by the warming Sun, “He’s right!” he declared. “He’s always right. It’s why I love him.” The very walls joyfully echoed the contagious rapture spread unto all. And then feeling along the bed until his hand touched the familiar, strong, able, and trustworthy hand of childhood, he squeezed with a tenderness not unnoticed by our hero and turned back and said, “You’re right. What would you have us do?”

“Bring her to me.”

At once his oldest now became the focus of the room.

“Help me up, brother. One final time.”

The room gasped as they watched. His mother fainted.

At last he was sitting at the head of the bed. And she was there.

“Da-”

“Shh—” he interrupted, eyes earnestly declaring the sad truth that all were too kind to admit. “Don’t speak. Know that in all these years, wherever your travels took you, I was there too.”

“Oh, daddy,” she cried. “I knew you never abandoned me. I always knew. I just didn’t know how to come home.”

“There, there, my beautiful girl,” he said, bravely keeping his tears at bay.

“I kept everything,” she added suddenly. “It’s all there. Every gift. Every letter. Every book. All the socks. It’s all in the bag. I wanted you to see it.”

As his eyes followed her gesture to the bag she had worn in, the answer to Earth’s oldest question, “Is there anything this man can’t do?” was finally answered. The levy broke. The man couldn’t hide his joy.

(To be continued…)

It’s Like Movie Stars Complaining About Discrimination

As I keep reading essays and books essentially on “the definition of science”, I can’t help asking, “Where does the conflict with religion come in?” I can readily admit that I feel the conflict, but after spending any time in contemplation on the supposed conflict, I resolve everything to, “It’s comparing apples and oranges”. The only conflict is between bad religion and bad science. The real deal of either each stands alone and never the twain shall meet.

This new thought (in the post’s title ⤴️) about the conflict occurred to me just now.

So let me get this straight. The authors of all the mainstream science textbooks that are endlessly promoted and in use (or their conclusions are—which is the same) by all major educational institutions, these authors uniformly decry religion as, in general, something that holds humans back. Or that it stunts the development of knowledge and civilization etc.

Yeah. Okay. I believe you. Just like I believe the claims of millionaire celebrities that they’re victims of discrimination.

Gimme a break.