One Reason the Literate Feel Uncomfortable and How to Regain Our Peace

One reason literate people like you and I feel uncomfortable as we survey the passing scene is as follows.

Back in mid-August of the year 1837, in England, an election was held, apparently on schedule. Queen Victoria was newly ascended to the throne and a Lord John Russell reported the election results to her in a letter. It reads:

Lord John Russell is sorry to add that bribery, intimidation, and drunkenness have been very prevalent at the late elections, and that in many cases the disposition to riot has only been checked by the appearance of the Military, who have in all cases conducted conducted themselves with great temper and judgment.

I want to call your attention to the “the disposition to riot has only been checked by the appearance of the Military” part.

An obvious reaction is how it feels like this could have been written last week. But such obviousness makes it a blasé reaction, and you deserve better.

The deeper, more profound reaction—the reason for our uncomfortableness—comes upon reflection that rioters like to pretend that their actions are accomplishing something noble. The tale they spin has an “ends justify the means” flavor. Rioters, or those who explain away rioters’ actions as What do you expect?!, load their words with a, “This will be the last time riots are necessary. If you only capitulate to their/our demands, then there will be no more riots,” sentiment.

This is a lie told by criminals.

What were the near riots about in 1837 England? Who cares. What were they about in 1968 in America? Who cares. What were they about last week? Who cares.

The thing that I do care about, the thing that matters, is you and I, the literate, properly identify our problem—uncomfortableness—and address it.

Put bluntly, our problem is we are not quite sure how to effectively explain to rioters, or those who see it as justifiable, that they are merely criminals and/or defending criminal behavior. We’d like to believe words could help. We’d like to believe a conversation would work. We’d like to believe all people, at all times, have something to say that’s worth a listen. The trouble is we can read. Consequently, we know that riots will occur again. And in that instance they will, again, be criminal. And criminal behavior, by definition, is incapable of communicating and reasoning in a civilized manner. So off to jail, by use of force or threat of force, the rioters go.

Conclusion-style, then, we have to admit a truth that we’re generally uncomfortable with; we have to admit that the conversation, the explanation, is foolish to attempt. (Well, we have to admit this if we want to regain our peace, if we want to end the uncomfortableness.) To be clear, I’m commending that we don’t even listen to them. There is nothing to be gained by “understanding” the rioters or those that would defend their behavior—only something to be lost: time.

Response to Mitch Albom: Don’t Scapegoat

Mitch Albom released an Op/Ed that reads no different than anything I’ve ever consumed of his, which is albeit not too much. He has a knack for reasonableness. Today, he was not reasonable. That’s because, today, he defended scapegoating.

In his post, “Coronavirus represents a war of the Everyman,” Mr. Albom asserts, “In fact, I would argue, it’s the biggest issue question facing the U.S. today. How many can be sacrificed? What’s the ‘dead’ number we can live with?”

Later, while arguing that the disease is no less dangerous despite any flattening curve, he writes, “You can get this disease, not know you have it, act irresponsibly, spread it, and indirectly be responsible for someone’s death. If that doesn’t bother you, then you are either soulless, or a president who thinks it’s cute to not wear a mask in an auto plant where everyone else must.”

And to kick things off, before unleashing those two doozies, he describes the virus as, “…a monster that attacks through the air but is animated by unlikely foot soldiers: Ourselves.”

At first, it sounds like he is sticking to undeniable and unassailable truths, but listen closer a second time.

“What’s the dead number we can live with?”

“…animated by…Ourselves.”

Now wait for it…

“You can…indirectly be responsible for someone’s death.”

Mr. Albom: someone’s body’s inability to heal itself from a virus does not make asymptomatic me responsible for their death.

Reader, wait! Before you think me callous, lend me your ear.

If all asymptomatic folks get back to normal life, no mask, no social distancing, no nothing—a return to actual normal life—handshakes and hugs, then what happens? We diffuse the blame. That’s what happens.

It won’t have been that the right-wing, gun-toting nut-jobs currently storming the Bastille caused the second wave, the second peak. And it can’t become the socialist, no consequence libtards who claim, “It was Trump!” that smugly prevent the second wave, the second peak.

Like the Senate who took down Caesar as a group, it will be all of us who are indirectly responsible for all COVID deaths. And when “all of us” are responsible, it means “none of us” are responsible.

As clearly as I know how: Asymptomatic individual humans will never be culpable or responsible, directly or indirectly, for deaths during “pandemics.” That is, unless asymptomatic individuals keep behaving in such a manner as to create scapegoats.

Mr. Albom: Don’t put on the mask. I know you’re scared. But sometimes people die. You of all people should know this.

Actually, every time, people die.

And Mr. Albom: Guess what? You aren’t responsible. Your pen can’t stop death. Your words can’t stop death. Your research can’t stop death. Your experts can’t stop death. Your mask can’t stop death. But your behavior can relieve your pain like a laugh can relieve sadness. Don’t put on the mask. You won’t have killed anyone, no different than before.

But when asymptomatic you puts on the mask, you put on something more. No different than Aaron the Israelite Priest of old put the sin on the goat, you put the virus on me.

Brave Post On Personal Responsibility

Jewishworldreview.com is a news site I started perusing for headlines years ago when Thomas Sowell still wrote. It’s nothing great, but the format is simple, the site loads quickly, and the viewpoints can be provocative. Last week, there was a piece by Larry Elder on the Ahmaud Arbery murder case. The editor of the site called Elder’s article “Gutsy”. This is because Elder writes that the single greatest threat to young black men is young black men. (He wrote this in response to King Lebron’s tweet.)

That’s not a gutsy move at all. I mean I guess if Elder loses something because folks find out that he is not “progressive” or “woke” then it was gutsy. But on the whole, it was more of the same. Boring.

I can do better. And I’ve been on the road all day yesterday and today and need a break, so I will take a moment and prove it.

Firstly, LeBron surely is not to be discarded because of figurative language. He felt hurt and expressed the pain. I do this all the time. Who would I be to hint that LeBron shouldn’t tweet away? (To be clear, my ex is a whore though. The two most dangerous things I’ve ever done are solo flight in an airplane only 20 hours into learning how to fly and sleeping with my ex. Let’s put it this way: If evil was an STD, the pandemic started at her home. However, if stupid was an STD, it must pass from mother to child during pregnancy, because I clearly was infected before meeting my ex.)

More importantly, however, it’s not gutsy to write something, which is perhaps a painful truth, to someone who cannot read. The Black Community cannot read. We all know this. Mr. Elder knows this. And yet Mr. Elder went off in written language, adding a statistical defense, and we’re to congratulate him for being brave? His target audience can’t read! Drop the stats and give a speech at a Baptist church on the topic and I’ll give him props. But until then, or until I hear that he does that regularly, I’m withholding my applause.

I know this because I went to a Baptist church, was married in a Baptist church, and tried to make Baptist friends for over three years. Most of my readers are friends. Want to know how many of those recently befriended Blacks read my blog? Zero. That’s why I’m not afraid to write this. They will never read it.

But whites? We read voraciously at times. We read to the point of stupidity. For example, I just found out that my ex’s dad reads this blog. I had no idea. I knew my ex-sister-in-law did, but I never would’ve guessed my ex father-in-law was a fan. It’s been nearly eight years since the end of the marriage and he still reads it! It’s stupid. Why torture himself? Because he’s white.

To be clear, you are stupid for continuing to read my blog. Just like I am stupid for believing “mother believes that parenting time is appropriate and necessary to maintain (and develop) father/daughter relationship” when I read that. Just like Blacks are stupid for not taking advantage of the chance to change their social status by simply learning how to read English. Oh well. We’re all stupid.

But I’ll tell you something. I’m never going to stop writing and I am never going to limit the topics or content. That’d be missing the point entirely. And H- deserves a fighting chance at learning the truth of why her childhood was the way it was, learning how your daughter is trading a few short years for eternal darkness, which is where she’ll be before Hell, after my daughter figures out there’s a written record.

More than that, you need to just stop reading. You’re stupid for continuing to read. This is the first and last post with you in mind. Why do this to yourself? Block the emails. Or unsubscribe.

Actually, who are we fooling? We know it’s not even you. You’d like to get on with your day, but the matriarch calls you in when it’s a juicy post. Fine. Just like how us two stupid guys were able to de-escalate things earlier, I don’t blame you. You’re not directing this madness. Tell her to stop reading. Just like she had to be told to stop bathing a nine year old. It’s disgusting.

The “Dad Attorney Sites” Never Get It Right

If you’re a divorced dad who finds that he is daily castrated–I’m talking balls cut off soon after waking, but then after a day and night of adjusting to a new life of crippling pain, you find that they regrew during the night, the cycle itself having the effect of soon making the dawn of day seem like encroaching outer darkness–and if you’re looking to end it all–yes, the “s” word (shh! suicide shh!)–the place for you is most definitely “dad’s rights” attorney websites.

Those websites can be found most easily by asking the internet questions like, “Should I call the police if my ex-wife doesn’t give me my daughter for court ordered my parenting time?”

The content on those websites includes, summarily, the fact you’re in a shitty spot. That you’re not the first to be in a shitty spot. That you’re not alone. And, of course, that you have to pay the money every month no matter if you ever want to see your daughter again (and stay outta jail). Oh, and lastly, you should call the attorney whose site you’re viewing and pay him money.

Sometimes the sites even contain scenarios to match against your current drama which may help you to more easily choose a course of action.

Additionally, the sites will paint the picture that plenty of men absolutely lose their minds. (One dad did “self surveillance” on his ex’s house and after the mom went to work, he saw the boyfriend fall asleep, and then the dad snuck in (how he kept his watermelon-sized balls from waking the village, we’ll never know!) and got his daughter–whom he then kept for 4 years! Nuts and bolts! Nuts and bolts! His-Ex-Got-Screwed! ((I wonder if she felt it?)))

It did not clarify whether the boyfriend ever found that ham wallet again.

Lucky for me, I am not plenty of men. Lucky for you, I know how to capture reality in words far better than just about everyone else. And if you’ve made it this far, you’re obviously not a man who’s going to go through with the aforementioned shamefully dirty deed. So I beseech you, stick with me a little longer and you’ll feel better.

The thing that the attorney sites get wrong is that they don’t ever evidence that they actually are aware of the feeling a daily-castrated man experiences. They try. They clearly have talked to a lot of these men. But they just, for whatever reason, don’t seem to get it. (Probably because they’re motivation lies in cash, not righteousness.)

Here’s my tale.

I don’t compromise. To repeat, I believe in war. I believe in there being a point on the life continuum where talk is over, where blood must be spilled in order to problem solve. The major instruction I received throughout my childhood informed this belief. And the first part of my adulthood executed this belief.

This belief does not lead to successful co-parenting. To be clear, I haven’t ever even tried to apply it because it’s so beyond obviously disastrous to the end goal–being 50% of the my daughter’s life being with me.

But the belief does something worse. The belief creates a world where you only see that every single step walks you further away from your daughter. I mean that beyond the steps in front of you that you can easily admit would take you further away despite your intentions, an uncompromising personality begins to see that every step takes you away.

Ask a question. Increase the distance by one step. Don’t ask a question. Increase the distance by one step.

State an assertion. Take a step away. Don’t state an assertion. Take a step away.

Tell the truth. Take a step away. Lie. Take a step away.

Pay money. Take a step away. Don’t pay money. Take a step away.

Get in the car. Step away. Don’t get in the car. Step away.

Go to work. Step away. Quit. Step away.

Eat any food you ever once made with your daughter. Step away. Avoid all food reminders. Step away.

Help a different child. Step away. Don’t ever help another child. Step away.

Bless your enemy. Step away. Curse your enemy. Step away.

Pray for those who persecute you. Step away. Be like the Gentiles. Step away.

Get married. Step away. Stay single. Step away.

Seek advice. Step away. Don’t seek advice. Step away.

Pay your attorney. Step away. Pay her attorney. Step away.

Pay a mediator. Step away. Don’t pay a mediator. Step away.

Go to court. Step away. Don’t go to court. Step away.

Do you see the effect of belief in war? It is not that you suffocate; it’s crippling. You get to the point where it feels like stillness is the only option.

“If I just sit still, if I just lie here,” you tell yourself, “then maybe the newest mutation of COVID-19 will enter through her mom’s eyes…”

But being still is definitely not stepping towards the child.

Step away.

So what do you do?

Step away.

Step away.

Step away.

Laugh.

Step away.

If only.

Step away.

Why I Do Stupid $h!t

Control.

It’s not complicated.

I do stupid things, from continuing a first date after hearing, “I smoke weed every day,” to marrying a drug addicted whore, to impregnating said whore, to divorcing said whore, to paying thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars to said whore, because I refuse to live a life without control.

“It’s just a first date.”

“I’m not breaking up with you because of deploying, and I’m not leaving a listless whore behind so she can get lonely and cheat.”

“We’re married. Why not do the kid thing?”

“I am NEVER going to allow circumstances to develop which may lead to this feeling again.”

“No judge. No court. No third person is ever going to tell me that I owe a whore money. I don’t care if that costs me more money than otherwise. I would not be able to live with myself if it was within a universe where someone can tell me to give her money. She has to ask. Like the whore she is. That universe, dark as it is, makes sense to me. Now you know, so leave me alone.”

As I write this I cannot deny that the word “depression” is all over it. It’s embalmed in the stupid decisions, it’s buried in the stupid reasons. It’s born by the stupid title.

(It feels good to add that confession. Smart.)

I’m not depressed. I’m not. I love life. I’m a freakin’ professional pilot. I get to fly with the eagles for pay. In fact, just the other day I breezed past two bald eagles on different occasions while up at about 1000ft. Can you imagine being an eagle and just climbing up and up and up? I can. And I can imagine it more accurately than you because I know what the eagles never think about. For all its apparent freedom, the sky is a pretty restricted, rule-ridden realm of the planet–if you’re human. But if you’re the eagle? He just soars. And I got to see him do it, looking right and looking down.

They were each surreal moments and are now treasured memories.

I’m not depressed. But I am angry. I am angry at the LORD. I am angry that, in all his infinite wisdom, he has put this woman in my life. For what? Or, KJV style, wherefore? Why?

To be determined, I guess.

I have never met anyone else like her. I’ve met blacks. I’ve met Mexicans. I’ve worked alongside ex-cons. Studied alongside killers. Worshiped with immigrants. Pimped prostitutes. Laughed with liars. But I’ve never met anyone else like her.

I guess I should be happy she’s only one entity. It could have been worse.

Still, I wish I had never met her. She is a black hole of malicious nothingness wrapped in a wrecking ball. I cannot even begin to imagine what her parents think of her. And to hear our daughter speak of her brings sadness every time. Sadness, because she lies to our daughter.

She lies to our daughter. She lies to our daughter. Oh yes, she lies to our daughter.

The reckoning is coming. I cannot wait.

She lies to our daughter. Oh boy, she lies to our daughter.

Does she not know I taught our daughter to read? Not just to sound out the words, but to actually read.

No, I’m not depressed. I’m excited.

She lies to our daughter. The reckoning is on its way.

I have faced the reckoning. Probably five of them by now. Hers is on its way.

Who lies to a child? Maybe before literacy among the three of us doubled, it would’ve worked. But our daughter knows how to read. I made sure of that.

Control.

Right or wrong, I do stupid things to stay in control. But teaching her to read was not stupid.

We Are Past the Time of Prophets

The prophetic book of Ezekiel is widely known for one small and relatively (or arguably) minor passage about “dry bones”. Christians (myself included) love the imagery. YouTube has clips upon clips of sermon upon sermon on the passage. The trouble is that the dry bones section is ultimately a very brief part of a larger writing that is of a decidedly less hopeful tone.

The question for today, and I mean the question for April 21, 2020 during the pandemic, is, “Are we past the time of prophets?”

The question came to my mind because I watched a pair of rants by Bill Maher, and was encouraged to do so by a super-conservative blogger on a near-scary news website. Both rants by Mr. Maher were engaging, coherent, and, most importantly, timely. But I felt like a fool afterwards. Bill Maher is a joke. The words in and of Ezekiel have made it nearly 3000 years. Bill’s tone of voice will keep him going for 50+ years, but his words are ultimately empty. Take this assessment of mine together with the fact that I cannot find one commentator who I agree with, and the question came to mind, “Are we past the time of prophets?”

Ezekiel 2:7 has the LORD saying to the prophet, “But you shall speak my words to them whether they listen or not, for they are rebellious.”

Naturally, there have been prophets before Ezekiel got his call. Again, that is not the question. Obviously, and despite the at times anachronistic ordering of the books of the Old Testament, there were prophets after Ezekiel died. That is not the question either. My question is, “Are we past the time of prophets?”

During the #Metoo movement of a bygone era, comedians found themselves defending their barbaric craft. I wonder if during this pandemic prophets should be defending theirs?

The LORD told Ezekiel, “…speak my words…whether they listen or not…” In so doing, one might say, the LORD gave a definition of a prophet. The prophet is going to speak. They don’t care what happens next. They may desire one outcome or another upon hearing, but they, the prophets, believe they are called to speak. The listeners’ response is always contingent on the LORD’s will. And my question is, “Are we past the time of prophets?”

Put another way, “It’s been 2000 years since the resurrection. Are we bound to support a segment of society who simply criticize, people who simply lament, people who simply know better, people who are smug, people who saw COVID coming, people who think the Bible saw COVID coming, people who think the situation is obvious? Are we bound to listen to people who would choose to hold the microphone over all other professions and at all cost? Are we bound to these people?”

I say, “No.”

I say, “Shut up.”

I say, “You’re no journalist. You’re no newsman. You’re no investigative reporter. You’re a prophet. And we are past the time of prophets.”

The Marathon Analogy Doesn’t Work

I’m so tired of leaders who attempt to dupe us with this, “It’s a marathon not a sprint,” talk.

Everyone knows the only reason they say it is they know they are making unbelievable decisions with obviously disastrous consequences. The analogy fails for a few reasons, but the most glaring is that there are two elements to the races mentioned: speed and distance. An analogy works best if there’s only one element.

Maybe it is obvious to you, but I don’t even know which one they mean. Do they mean, “Don’t worry about my leadership, it’s gonna be bad for a long time?” Or “Don’t worry about my leadership, it’s gonna be bad for many more miles?”

I know, I know, you think there’s no way they mean “miles”. Okay. So let’s look at the time comparison.

The world record for a marathon is run at a pace of 2m54s per kilometer which is 174s. Divided by 10, that is 17.4s per 100 meters. The world record for the 100 meter dash is 9.58s—so about twice as fast a pace.

But by now I’ve thoroughly confused myself because I don’t see the point anymore. Is the leader saying “Recovery is going to take twice as long as you think?” If that was all they were trying to say, I’d think they could say it—and follow it up with data on how long we think it’s going to be and how long it’s actually going to be (and that it’s double). And then I get suspicious because if they won’t say the “twice as long” thing in plain terms—no analogy—then I want to know why.

As I figured this, it came to mind, that with a sustained 17.4 second hundred meter dash for an entire 26.2 mile marathon (421+ sprints), I hardly think anyone would suggest the marathon runner is giving less than his absolute best effort every single step, every life-giving breath—no different than the sprinter. Both men are running their absolute fastest for the duration of the race. Hmm. Duration. Are they simply wanting us to acknowledge the problem is a long one? Why not just say that? I know, because it doesn’t make sense. Because then they’d have to define the problem. Because in their inability to define the problem, they’d look weak. So rather than look weak, they’re going to try to dupe us. Here’s a sarcastic big thumbs up.

Now it’s my turn to use the analogy. Hey, leaders! We’re not stupid. But we also aren’t seeing all that you are. So you have some advantage. Please do your best—including the way you communicate to us. For now, stop using this stupid analogy as if it means something.

Let Pilots Rule

So, we all just learned something that we all already knew. If we allowed a doctor to rule the world, then he’d keep us all in our own exam room.

For fun, can you guess what a pilot would do if he was in charge?

Time’s up! If you said, “A pilot would teach everyone to fly,” then you guessed right. Smart cookie.

Let’s not forget today’s lesson. Let’s shame Dr. Fauci out of the spotlight. And let’s go flying.

I Told You So!

I told you so! Nobody wants to admit it. And those who do admit it, just shrug it off. But I told you so!

Back in December or November I visited my step-son’s public elementary school for a day. Afterward, I wrote a post which included that the most surprising thing was how little the kids were taught during their day. I wrote that they received “maybe two hours” of instruction.

I promptly pulled him out and began homeschooling him.

Now that the kids are all home, my daughter says that she has “half-an-hour to one hour” (happy to correct my “hour and a half?” clarification until she wished she hadn’t) of schoolwork a day. In exchange for an 8+ hour rigamarole charade, the kids can work for 30 minutes? Every public school teacher should be fired. Then flogged. They are nothing but lying liars.

I told you so!

30-60 minutes. What the mother-effing sh!t are they doing the rest of the day in those buildings?

What a waste. What a shame.

What a waste. What a shame.

What a waste. What a shame.

On Neglect of A Child

This is mostly a time capsule, but also a public thank you note and call to action.

I had always thought of “neglect” as a strictly physical or emotional thing. I think I always pictured a skinny, filthy boy. Maybe the boy had a tear coming down one cheek.

No longer.

Neglect now looks like a happy boy, but one who constantly lies. The lying is so pervasive that truth itself needs constant defining.

I want to record two observations that have shocked me, not because they’re unbelievable, but because they’re perfectly coherent despite being as alien as aliens.

Firstly, I recently watched a boy be immediately repulsed by my request to make a written record. It’s a look money cannot buy. Despite lacking most indicators of critical-thinking for his age, he knew immediately that the action of writing would put his well-honed methods at a disadvantage. Specifically, if we timed an event (say Math Facts) and just announced the result out loud, making no written record, the next time we discussed it, it simply became a battle of who cares the most. A, “Huh-uh. I didn’t take that long,” or, “I didn’t go that fast,” depending on the child’s mood. But with the written record, there is now accountability. And with accountability comes responsibility. And responsibility brings fear—because we’re talking about a child who has never known responsibility because the adults never taught him to read and write. And we fear what is new.

The second observation is along the same lines, but the inverse angle. With no written record, conversations and moods tend to follow the energy of the group—no matter their particularly disadvantageous content or claims. The important thing to note is that there is no undesirable consequence for the child in talking like this—just go with the flow, and add something in kind. The specific example is as follows. Recently someone influential in the boy’s life (with apparently no awareness for the power of their words) remarked the boy was becoming fat. Keep in mind, the boy is not becoming fat. Anyhow, the boy then recounts how he didn’t have kool-aid at lunch that day. The audience laughs. Then I say, “We’re actually gonna just do water for lunch from now on in any case.” He, surprisingly, says, “That’s okay! I have plenty of kool-aid in my stomach already.” More laughs all around. Then at lunch the next day, he absentmindedly asks, “Can I have kool-aid?” I say, “No. Didn’t you say last night that you were fine without it?” Oh, the look on his face. Again, it was priceless.

For me, these observations and this new understanding of neglect and accountability and responsibility and truth are priceless.

Oscar-style, “I’d like to thank the Academy (like the actual Greek one of antiquity), my parents, my teachers, my sister, my church leaders, my friends, and just about everyone who every picked up a writing utensil and wrote with it and encouraged me to do the same from the earliest age. Also, I’d like to thanks all those, many of the self-same people, who called me out for lying from a young age—despite the nowadays perceived harshness of that simple act. I don’t know if it felt unpopular back then, but either way, thank you.”

For you, dear reader, hold the children accountable. Teach the children to write. In other words, don’t neglect the children.