Tagged: family

The Value of Communicating Waters Cannot Be Understated

In reading Vol 4 of Washington Irving’s Life of George Washington (taken together with my memories of Africa’s chapter in Conquests and Cultures by Thomas Sowell) I cannot help but walk away with the thought that it cannot be overstated how valuable waterways which can be navigated by large ships are.

If you need an easy to remember, due to superlatives, summary of the history of life on planet Earth (how has it unfolded), as told by winners, it is this: victory has come to those people who were interested in communicating aloud with the most people, the most frequently, and who were able to command the waters which communicated the heaviest amounts of goods, the farthest distances, at the fastest speeds.

In short, open-minded, talkative, and good-listening entrepreneurs on the banks of waterways of significant depth and breadth hold the keys to the Kingdom of Earth.

Maybe My First Podcast Recommendation Ever

I can’t recall ever using this blog to recommend a podcast episode before. In any case, I haven’t done it often. But I just listened to one that is a “must listen”, if such a thing exists.

It is Peter Robinson’s latest. He interviews a historian on the topic of The History of Communist China. (It is just over an hour.)

Do you know any communists? If so, listen.

Have you somehow marooned yourself and your WordPress Reader alone on an island? If so, listen.

Let’s just say, upon completing the episode, I have begun teaching A- and J- (5 and 4 respectively) two general and absolute truths. (I do it catechism-style, Q&A.)

Firstly, What is the first defense against communists? The first defense against communists is books—communists hate books.

Secondly, Who do guns protect us from? Guns protect us from communists.

In the same vein, it seems now is as good of time as ever to share another national security proverb my young progeny get to repeat, “The Democrats are not the fifth column.”

On Juneteenth’s Despair

Anyone else’s read of the passing scene include that the Juneteenth folks are desperate? They are even more lame than most pastors and evangelists. No matter how ambiguously noble they make their particular “holiday” sound, no matter how much of the population they invite, no matter how family friendly they make it, I will never celebrate Juneteenth.

Why?

Because it is rooted in victimhood.

Lincoln didn’t wait for someone to tell him it was okay to be free. Neither did GW or TJ.

The slaves, however, waited. The enslaved waited. And they always will wait. That’s what makes them slaves. That what allows them to become enslaved.

So “no”, my family and I won’t be celebrating.

Their cause isn’t noble. Their invitation isn’t sincere. And the whole family friendly ploy is a joke. If bounce houses had any value, world peace would have broken out, starting in urban neighborhoods—last generation.

Museum Quality TDS, South Park Quality Indoctrination, and Food—My Trip to Rushmore and Crazy Horse

Anyone who has ever visited a custom framing store knows that the easiest upsell in the universe is museum quality glass. For the uninitiated, the glass companies, or whoever, provide this shadow box which holds an item—usually a yellow tassel—behind what appears to be one half of a pane of glass. That’s the gimmick. It appears like there is no glass on one half. But there is. And now you’re hooked. How could you ever cover any framed object with a dirty window?

Naturally, this museum quality glass gets its name from its use in museums—these carefully curated places of unfiltered history. Or at least that’s how I think of museums. Sure, there are going to be words of explanation besides the clear-glass-encased pieces and sure these words will naturally be written with an agenda of some sort. But the objects behind the unseen glass are the real communicators.

Luckily for us, this is still the case with Mt Rushmore. You see, I just took the kids to visit it—A- had learned about it in kindergarten. And all I can say is I am happy to report the museum piece was worth it. Because the description was sorely lacking.

The video presentation, which spent a lot of time on the importance of the right type of rock for such a project, had a line, “Years later, the artist (I can’t recall his name) was asked if there was enough room for another face and he said, ‘No’.”

TDS has infected a national memorial. Firstly, if Trump wants his face on it, he will get it done—and in gold. Secondly, the Left is somehow afraid of this man. What has he done to them besides disagree and name call? It’s incredible to witness their fear.

Oh, and did you know women and minorities helped create Mt Rushmore?

It is impossible—literally you can see both from the road—to not want to go to check out the Johnny-come-lately Indians’ effort while in the Rushmore area. Of course, I mean Crazy Horse.

Unfortunately, for anyone who has ever seen South Park, the experience is uneasy. Rushmore charges $10 to park. And the entire site is built to last—lots of stone and whatever that fake but permanent wood is called that decks can be built out of. Bathrooms are great. Viewing area is great. The whole experience is great.

But the Crazy Horse experience is embarrassing. They have a fee schedule—to include $10(!) to walk up. And a car load is $35. The entire monument (which will be epic at a LOTR level if they ever get smart and finish it) is very far away. Everything about the place is VHS in a world of 4K streaming—and I mean the kind of chasm involved in visiting your distant relatives whose TV/VCR combo unit isn’t flat, let alone do they have two bathrooms.

We watched a video (as recommended) to continue the post-parking lot experience which began with actually handing a just-received physical ticket to a gatekeeper. The movie was informative, and it contained the key flaw to the concept: the belief in adherence to unduly stubborn principles.

Again, back at Rushmore we were informed us that the artist and his son barely touched the mountain—instead they directed the many workers.

Crazy Horse’s artist was the sole worker, at least to start. And from Rushmore’s crew.

Rushmore took 14 years.

Crazy horse is 78 and no horse in sight.

I understand TTP (Trust the Process) and am living proof that it is true. Also, I cannot stress enough how cool the final monument will be. I am also totally fine with the tragic concept behind the project, that of an Indian pointing to where his home was—even though it necessarily carries the false idea that losers were participants in an unfair fight.

Back to the visit, we next perused what there was to peruse and noticed that in only 8 minutes there would be a proper drum and dance performance.

We took our seats and proceeded to listen to a real (looking) lady Indian dressed in real (looking) Indian gear lecture us for 50 minutes of an hour, on how the 600 tribes of Indians were living in perfect harmony, how they forecast Einstein’s E=mc2, and how the word “Sioux” means “snake”.

It was a family affair, we learned. So her 10 year old daughter came out and sang a short Indian song. And then her 19 year old daughter came out and danced two dances, accompanied by iPhone drums (probably not AI song) over loudspeakers, in a dress strung with hundreds of bell-looking things that sounded like kazoos jingling.

I need to emphasize here: I understand totally the concept of “talk before eat”. It is impossible to serve free food and then ask people to stay for a free lecture. Main attractions have to come last, I get it. But the lecture was 5/6ths of the allocated time and rife with inaccuracies—she even pointed out the brains of buffaloes were used to oil the hides.

(See Wilder’s settler’s written description of “butchering day” for context.)

Anyhow, after driving away, and while tearing down our campsite the next morning (have I mentioned I am an Eagle Scout and quite literally one of the Last Boy Scouts?), it hit me. These people need to, firstly, tell the truth about how tragic and brutal life was before civilization approached and conquered. Secondly, after starting with the depressing, they need to regain some face and their only way to do that is to highlight proudly (and most welcomed-ly) all the ways the Indian ways influenced and sustains the dominant civilization—like, say, Indian Guides, Boy Scouts, chief, army helicopter titles (blackhawk, kiowa etc).

Lastly, the food at Rushmore is exactly what I imagined food in communist countries is like—terrible. But guess what?! The entire restaurant facility is award winning in its “green”-ness. I mean, consider this. The restaurant which serves terrible food (except the ice cream of course) is award winning: “Feel good about how the preparation and housing of the terrible, and overpriced, food adheres to irrelevant, purpose-less government guidelines.”

This brings me to my concluding advice: the food at Crazy Horse smelled really good—even to a full stomach. So don’t let any of my criticism deter you from seeing both monuments. But skip Rushmore’s restaurant and donate your money to the Crazy Horse food crowd instead of the commies.

Finally, two illustrative pics.

One Teeny, Tiny Flaw

I remember catching my mom in a bookstore aisle, kind of tucked away once. The book she was reading was self-help for “control freaks”. Understand, then, that she was the control freak in our family, and my sense of the encounter was that she was embarrassed that her son had seen that maybe she didn’t want to be.

I barely need to repeat the following, but for the unfaithful readers, please accept without question that my wife isn’t in love with yours truly anymore.

Books actually play a pivotal role in the drama, albeit in an unpredictable way. One of her main complaints to me, about my way of life, is that all my book reading does not lead to more money.

For my part, one of my main “asks” of her is that she stop reading the latest Christian bestselling “health and wealth” sermon transcripts masquerading as books. And truthfully, I don’t care that she reads them, but I would like her to read, at least some of the time, real books—not “The Secret” part 73. I mean even pulp fiction or Louis L’Amour or whatever is flying off the grocery store shelves these days.

This last time home, I saw an unfamiliar book stacked upon her bible called something like, “How to Live With A Manipulative Husband”.

Do you see the problem, folks? It’s easy to miss, so I understand if you don’t.

As for me, I am seriously considering putting out a best seller for us husbands. What do you say?

The title will be, “How to Smarten Up Your Wife AND Get Her to Stop Buying Crap.” Or maybe, “How to Make Your Wife Understand That She Doesn’t Need Makeup and Wigs Just Because All Other Women Wear Them.”

This might need to be a series, actually.

Another could be, “How to Live with a Woman Who, as It Turns Out, Is an Immature Child Who Lacks the Ability to Reason.”

Then there could be one on, “When Your Wife Married You, But Listens to Every Other Human Being Who Has Ever Uttered Speech Sounds Instead.”

The capstone, and I mean Fifty Shades of Grey success, will, of course, be, “How to Actually Get Your Wife to Stop Complaining and Be Happy.”

Men of the blogosphere, I’ve got you pegged as less than 10% of my readership. But what say you? Would you pay to unlock these secrets?

Thuck-Y-Dideez

I first heard of Thucydides in college. This would have been 2001-ish. We weren’t studying him, but the professor needed to make a point and used the classic “Athens-open, Sparta-closed” historian to do so. Along the way, the professor interlaced a story about how a student came to him complaining about the reading and pronounced thoo-sih-di-deez: Thuck-Y-Dideez.

Funny stuff.

I do not know what the Thucydides Trap is, but I want to post an informed guess before I google it. What did Xi mean when he used the phrase?

Before I reveal my surmise, I want to add here that a chinaman using a western anecdote is real evidence that America and the West are already winning the war with China. And rightly so, since we’re obviously the more relevant civilization.

Okay. That said. What is the “Thucydides Trap” that we hope to avoid?

War.

(Wish me luck in my AI-ing for confirmation/information.)

Poverty Can Be Immoral

As I see it, there are two, maybe three, ways to live in poverty.

Firstly, you can be grateful for what you have. This would be the Biblical and wise posture.

Secondly, you could (though I can’t think of anyone like this) remain neutral or ambivalent towards your condition. Asking for nothing more, expecting nothing more, and receiving nothing more. Again, this doesn’t seem to be a real posture, but I am not willing to rule it out.

Thirdly, you can believe that your impoverished condition is somehow not your fault. The flip side of this posture being that you believe you deserve and are worth more material good than you currently possess. This posture, then, is immoral poverty. It is immoral, not merely because it is unbiblical, but because it is rooted in untruth. Put plainly, you will not find an immorally poor individual who isn’t living a life of wild lies. Lies permeate their life like wetness permeates water. They are soaked in lies.

(Take a breath.)

Faithful Reader: Do not mistake the above for useful information. It is trivial observation based on this morning’s fight with my lying wife. Also indicative that the observation is useless is the following: There is nothing that can be done with these people. Their immorality is complete and airtight. They live within a perfectly logical netherworld. There is no prayer available to us that isn’t already floating to the heavens. There is no god capable of changing their behavior, capable of rescue. There is no help to be found on the mountains for this problem.

How does one live alongside such people? It can only be accomplished through exceedingly particular, nuanced, and ultimately discrete analysis of cause and effect.

That, then, is your wisdom for this Choosday, as Twain’s Jim utters it—which calls to mind another big assist: books.

Did the “God and Father of our Lord, Jesus Christ” Tell Me to Calm Down After My Car Broke Down on the Side of the Road?

As an EMS Helicoper Pilot, I absolutely refuse to sit in a car parked on the side of a highway. State Highway or otherwise, no way. Emergency blinkers on or not, you couldn’t pay me to sit inside the parked car and await my fate.

So I walked away from the car through some desert grass to a flat spot which, coming back in the morning, proved to be the access road to the parallel running railroad just a little farther away.

My main thought was, “Why would this happen? Have I been too unhinged in my thought life recently as my wife made terrible decisions about contagious kids? Maybe. But, no. I don’t really believe in such cause and effect. So why? Why can’t I just get home?”

Friends came to my immediate rescue, but not before one “Maryland Man”-type character pulled to a stop to see if I needed help. The passenger’s inability to look anywhere but forward was silly and unnerving. But, on the whole, the driver slowly developed a demeanor of, “I have more to lose than this gringo off duty cop,” and so he was happy for me to thank him and send him on his way.

Another vehicle, this time a sedan, came to a stop alongside my parked car—on an active lane of highway—and expected to see someone in the seat. Upon discovering my car was empty, or perhaps seeing the traffic behind him wasn’t necessarily going to stop, he pulled forward, and then got out and approached the car. I yelled from the side road area and he got back in his car. Unlike the MS-13 wannabe who definitely would have taken advantage of someone, this guy seemed “merely high” and in need of a loving act to square him with god.

As my pal finally approached, I still felt terror that some drunk was gonna take us all out as I quickly moved gear from my car to my rescuers.

Fast forward to this morning.

I was now, while standing a ways off the road again, on the phone discovering that the insurance-directed tow company had no idea I exist. The wind was blowing much colder than anticipated. The sun, while near constant in its role, was behind clouds. And I still had only one thing on my mind. “I will never sit in a car parked off the road on a highway. No, sir. Not me. I’m not going out like that. I’d rather freeze.”

Another rando pulls off (smartly) onto a driveway-esque point where the road would allow easy crossing of the railroad. I think, “Yup, I should’ve pulled off there too.” I walk over and say, “Thank you, but I already have help on the way.”

A 60ish year old local woman rolls down her window and replies, “What? Okay. I thought you were Jeremy.”

What a world we live in. I thought for a minute about whether Jeremy has my body type and Carhartt hoodie jacket, or my car. Or maybe both? That would be weird.

Finally, my wife, in a move totally unexpected for a million reasons, most especially the fact that I told her to go all the way to the next light just a few miles down for the required U-Turn, caught my attention by rushing to a stop and swinging the U-Turn at some random access point in the median which I honestly had not even noticed until just then.

Here’s where things get spiritual.

As this maneuver is being completed, I noticed two snow-plow-type city trucks slowly coming toward us. They were driving on the shoulder, spraying whatever they were spraying on the side of the road.

With me, faithful reader?

I tell my wife, “Please move to in front of my car so that you don’t get hit. I need to grab stuff from my car and I don’t want you guys (J- is in the car too) to get hit while waiting and trying to help me.

She did.

Slowly the trucks approached, turned their spigots down to a trickle, and gave way to pass by before resuming.

Another minute of moving gear—unprotected by those two trucks—and we were off. Success.

I am not one to find God, especially the actual, factual Biblical Father/Son/Holy Spirit, in every waking and coincidental moment.

But, right or wrong, when I saw those “blockers” slow rolling up to my family and I, and at the precise time that we were all there, I felt like maybe He was telling me, “Dude—too tight. You’re holding on too tight. It’s not your day.”

One Beautiful Truth: Kamikazes Are Dumbfounding

Letting my eyes linger on the cover of latest Alien vs. Captain America (#3), I likewise allowed my thoughts freedom to roam. My conclusion? While the images are too “dark” for my early elementary age kids’ still-clear eyes, and while I am not in love with my kids being aware that their Bible-heavy dad reads dark comics, I am certain that I want my kids to be surrounded with “good guys defeating bad guys”. The other option, ELE or Everybody Love Everybody, is too frightening.

Back in 2021ish, I was going on two years without seeing my, then, pre-teen daughter. A failed divorce was the reason. She and I had barely been chatting over Facetime and we sent a few texts, here and there. When she was about 9 years old, I took her to Metallica, which I mention to establish that music had been an available minor touch point.

So she’s around 12 and I asked her what she listened to.

“Billie Eilish songs like ‘Listen Before I Go’.”

I immediately did what needed to be done to see her again. I wouldn’t say I was worried about her committing suicide, as if she was some super-prone-to-suggestion sheep, but I was shaken, just the same.

5 years later and this Billie Eilish is still making the news.

The reason?

“No one is illegal on stolen land.”

Please recall, communication requires sender, message, receiver. And communication is verbal, tonal, and body language. In other words, please remember that the meaning of what she said is not any ol’ thang that we want it to mean.

So we know what words she sent and how they sounded and looked, but what did she mean?

Well, the word “illegal” in 2026, spoken at the Grammy’s by an award winner means, “those BIPOC people over there who, somehow normie, white surpremists want out of America because they are not white.”

And “stolen land” in 2026, spoken at the Grammy’s by an award winner means, “land that is anywhere but where I live and stand.”

So if we re-word what she said in order to represent her claim fairly, one way it might go is,

“No BIPOC people need to leave America.”

With me?

Another way to say the same thing, Billie Eilish said,

“Those brown people over there, they can stay over there.”

(This is the point where you stop reading if you disagree. This post is not about persuading you. It is about giving like-minded readers winning vocabulary and perspective with which to discuss the issues they find themselves wanting additional and creative approaches.)

To recap: I first learned of Billie Eilish because of my pre-teen daughter who was listening to Eilish’s suicide songs. Years later, Billie Eilish says something stupid and anti-American* and many people are wishing her ill as a result. As beloved Mark Twain said, “But I repeat myself.”

My point: You, faithful reader, must take people at their word. Billie is self-diagnosed as depressed and suicidal. She literally cannot care less. If all the bad things, eviction, unending lawsuits etc. were to befall her, she would not care. If America burns and she loses everything—even her precious ability to create art—she would not care.

This is dumbfounding.

And that acknowledgement is beautiful.

It is beautiful that you and I are dumbfounded by a suicidal person and perspective. If we were not dumbfounded, if we agreed with Billie et al, we would, ourselves, be suicidal and ugly.

Same point put inversely: It is not shocking that kamikazes like Billie Eilish and friends are dumbfounding.

****

*Anti-American because Americans don’t care what ‘color’ someone is.