Tagged: love

Unlived, Unlit, and Unstoppable

In the future, the historians will earn their daily bread by revealing what is common knowledge to those of us who have endured to this point in America’s second civil war. That is, the historians will take up—singularly—as the topic of their magnum opuses the fact that the war (itself not an immoral or criminal part of life on earth) began with wanton, unchecked criminality.

Once it became clear that the police were not going to behave according to their sworn oaths, Americans in whose veins pumped blood which was hot with rage did not line up according to some contemporary “Blue and Grey” as the Proud Boys and Antifa gangs had hoped.

In the beginning there wasn’t strategy; there weren’t plans. In the place of those things, and others, which always took much time to materialize (and only ever did at the sounding of a long suppressed cry for leadership) the baser instincts of society were unleashed. This meant, naturally, that what we now call the “war” first began as all violent crime begins—passionately. And for any crime to receive this noble description, it can only relate one shameful fact: the violence occurred among family and friends.

People, generally men, who had long felt wronged and unheard by the “man” saw an opportunity to take matters into their own hands. One can almost empathize with these previously caged animals. “Fuck it,” they said. “If there’s no chance of punishment this side of the dirt, I’ll take my chances with whatever comes on the other side.” God Will Judge became the mantra.

Who among us hasn’t heard stories of the bloody red, depressingly black, and intensely personal mayhem that occurred in the year before formal armies were announced and maps redrawn? Tell me I’m wrong. We felt comfortable among strangers—enough even to dull our senses with the poison of the month. But no one would have more than one beer with family for fear of missing the cues proffered that home-cooked meals with just arrived, uninvited distant relatives would end in bloodshed. To live in fear of your own kin? That’s a crime against heaven. And heaven has answered, surely.

Culturally speaking, this played out across the country differently. The blacks, hispanics, Chinese, mooslums, and others—by virtue of living so communally as it was—were on edge all the time (which was not too different from their prior felt experience). The whites? Well, we lived out another chapter of the story. The interstates were filled with murderous travelers. To keep up with the new reality, we put a new entry into the Merriam-Webster app entry of “road rage”. And when people stopped for what would have become road rage crimes in the recent past, this time they didn’t fight or shoot each other. Rather, they shared the stories which, like their vehicles, carried them forward by the latent power of unexploded remains of ancient demons. But most of the time no one stopped. Tailgating still caused anger, but no one stopped driving. They allowed the reflection of the bumper close behind to crystallize their vision of the future close ahead.

Here’s the point. Here’s the part that no historian will ever think to write about or investigate because a negative just can’t be proven—so they say. But I don’t need logic to tell you what I saw. The dead, the victims of these crimes of passion? They never saw it coming.

This Time I Resolve Why There Are No More Great Ideas (And This Also Explains Why Good Ideas Didn’t Ever Really Come Out Of Anywhere But The West)

I’ve had my “Great Books of the Western World” set for over two years now. Not including the Synopticons, books 2 & 3, I am on book 5, I think. Aeschylus. I think. Anyhow, the thing that has been unresolved until now is how no one else cares about these amazing books and ideas.

Finally, today, it hit me. To put it avant-garde, the reason no one cares about the “great books/ideas” is because there are too many Indians to kill this time around. Put inversely, the reason no one cares about the “great books/ideas” is because there is no vast, unexplored, unconquered, and ungoverned terra firma to be again treated like New Eden. After all, it’s “you’ve been kicked out of the Garden”, not, “You’ve been kicked out of wherever you settled after being kicked out of the Garden.”

We don’t seem to be able to think more than one step ahead.

Put another way, great ideas and great books—so says the zeitgeist—have become meaningless. We ask, “What’s the point? Where could we put them into practice and try to build up a utopia for a third time?”

“Is anyone really going to redraw European boundaries? Will untamed regions of Africa and South America and Siberia and Northern Canada really find themselves useful to man?”

“Where is the Neo New World? Or the Ultimate Final Frontier?”

“Speaking of, will it be ‘New USA’ once we’re living somewhere off earth? Or just ‘USA’?”

My step-son just finished reading about Columbus, from an author who adored Columbus—rightly so—and on no follow-on ACT/SAT-prep style reading comprehension test is Columbus:Spain::Musk:USA, no matter how many dictionaries or books I let him use.

Changing generations, my good, in fact, great friend is working on his History PhD, and in so doing writes on mountaineering and exploration. I used to think he was writing the history of mountaineering and exploration. Now I see that he is writing that mountaineering and exploration are actions and ideas which can only be found in history—like the word “homespun”. The crazy part of this aspect of my realization is that many people and cultures never climbed mountains for pleasure or explored uncharted vistas in the first place. It seems that nature is not equitable when dishing out bravery. We might say that bravery is actually unnatural. Better to hide, run, and go hungry.

In the end, despite the depressing nature of the above, I am terribly excited to have resolved this.

Stay tuned for a post about how I resolve the follow-up quandary, which is deciding how to let fellow earthlings know that they are not very nice neighbors without killing the men, raping the women, and enslaving the children. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

One Black Future

“…we ought rather to be proud of the fact that American literature can boast of at least one good, decent, Christian author who was cursed neither with self-consciousness not with false modesty, those banes of art.” — William Leigh Jr.

“SAY HIS NAME!!”

I found the bullhorn was more annoying than loud. Worse, for their cause, the mob’s response to the prompt felt forced. And I’d be lying if I described it as “loud”. Rather than lead you to believe that my tale centers on decibels, however, I want to say that what worried me now was the shortened breathing and seemingly even shorter attention span of the man who I just met.

And then it happened, I got slugged.

“Say it again,” he yelled at me. “Hey y’all, hold up! Look at what we got here,” he yelled to the mob.

For a moment, the mob pretended to possess enough self-control to be undeterred from their purpose.

But his second call of, “Hey y’all! Y’all ain’t gonna believe what this white boy just said,” proved as attractive to this crowd as a city block of recently renovated urban blight.

I’d straightened up at this point. And just as my composure returned, unexpectedly, I felt his knuckles against my ear again. I crouched low and stepped back for a second time. And down I stayed as I heard an angry, loud young women ask, “What’d he say?” And then what I could only describe as the voice of a future Southern Gospel preacher boomed, “We being peaceful tonight, brothers and sisters. Peaceful. Don’t hit the man. Someone help him.” In response to this great addition to the annals of stump speeches, some sort of lackey came my way, crouching to look over the extent of damage to my face.

Turning to me, the Reverend Doctor said, “Apologies for that. What’s on your mind?”

I collected my bearings, avoided shaking the battlefield surgeon’s hand, and found that I was newly surrounded by the mob.

“You’re not black,” I repeated.

With a squint that betrayed his true color, Pastor-man sharpened his eyes, hoping that his flock would disobey en masse just this once. Only the initial loudmouth proved himself deaf. And so, for the third time, something I can only describe as a mix between a slap and a wild right hook landed on the top of my skull. As I wrapped my arms around my now hunched over, asphalt-gazing head, I had to admit, my skill at recognizing the start of the contest was improving.

“Boy,” the man began, unable to withstand all temptation to civility, “I’m, ah,” he rubbed his chin and looked around as he measured the feeling of the mob. Somebody in the back shouted, “‘We!’” The future-Pastor took this correction in stride and rejoined, “Son, we,” and at this he drew a lazy circle around his head with a downward pointing finger for emphasis as he turned a circle himself, then continued, “we are gonna give you another chance to speak.” (“It’s only fair!” someone added.) “I’m praying,” he paused to let a knowing chuckle breathe, “that you use it wisely.”

Did I want to die? That’s the question I asked myself. I still don’t know the answer. I don’t think I did. But I was tired. I know I was tired. I couldn’t remember a time in my life when we weren’t forced to listen to this nonsensical bullshit, and tonight, I was simply out of energy.

“I said,” I began, “you ALL,” here I diligently added a minor clarification which I thought might help communicate my intention more clearly, “are not black.”

Not like the modern “Cirque du Soleil”-style circus, but quite like an atmosphere of the circuses of lore, or what I imagined to be how those big tops operated—always on the verge of chaos—a circus erupted.

At this, I definitely avoided what would have been the fourth blow by my initial conversant. The trouble was that my path backwards, as I mentioned, had been filled in by the mob, specifically by tightly—and remarkably scantily (considering the amount of fabric)—clothed heavyset women. Like always, these about-to-be-breaking-out rap-porn, IG Queens were, with one hand, pointing their phones at me and with the other, holding drive-thru cups out of which they sipped some sort of sugary delight through straws. All the while, their purses looked like they were enjoying the break from constant adjustments that naturally occurred while the mob wormed its way around low numbered street names.

In other words, I found my retreat blocked off by what amounted to angry, hi-tech pillows.

So his fifth punch did land. Oh well.

“You blind?! You sayin’ my skin ain’t black?”

He didn’t really leave me much time between punches 6, 7, and 8, but I continued our interview anyhow.

“No. I’m saying, ‘You are not,” I suddenly remembered the earlier point of clarity and so corrected myself, but not before number 9, “I’m saying, ‘You all are not black.’”

I stayed on my back for a moment, thinking to rest and recuperate, but was unpleasantly surprised to feel a kick to my left ear—what was up with this dude and ears?

“Let him up!” I heard a loud too-busy-for-choir-practice-but-too-good-to-not-be-in-the-church-choir-alto sing out.

Like a poor form deadlift, all back and no legs, I stood to the erect position again.

“Thank you,” I acknowledged.

No sooner than these words came out did I discover that she might have had a protein shake in her cup. Put bluntly, not ‘all fat’, as I had suspected, and I found myself pushed down, very directly, to the ground once again.

“Bitch, I don’t speak for no one but me, but I am black!” she announced.

So where are we? Right, a kick again from Don Lemon, this time to the kidney, and that makes 11.

I felt there would be another soon, so I hopped up quickly, covered the ear closest to my lately befriended investigator, and repeated, “You all are not black.”

****

“And that’s when we showed up?” Officer Jones asked.

“Yup. My own knights in shining armor. Don Quixote,” I said.

“Don who?”

“Never mind. It’s a book. Good one, too. So what’s next?”

“I think we have everything we need to finish up the paperwork for tonight,” he said. Then he continued, “Can I tell you something?”

“Shoot.”

“You’re kinda a moron.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Will you do something for me?”

I hesitated.

“Will you stop saying, ‘You’re not black’?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because someone needs to tell them the truth.”

Flawless Execution

I do not know how Trump’s team chose “red” for their ballcaps.

I think I understand why red ballcaps became a symbol of all things evil.

I am very certain that I adore the recent and unfolding slight-of-hand in which red ballcaps have been replaced with the American flag.

And I am here today to say that the exchange was executed flawlessly.

You see, the American man can always spot the enemy. This ability is no mutant, divine, or alien superpower, but it does seem to reside in the rushing rivers of our blood. Likewise, the enemy always knows that deep down, in the empty recesses of their heart, that they are an enemy to America. The reason the American man and the enemy cannot coexist is found in this simple fact: the enemy lies. Consequently, rather than come outright and announce their disdain for all things star spangled, they strategically and deceitfully choose to disdain abstract, absurd, and obnoxious straw men. So be it.

But, but, I say! The American flag is now back in the mix.

Until today I never really considered what it must be like to view Old Glory through the eyes of an enemy. Did the Germans really ever hate it, back in the day? Doubtful. Could Osama Bin Laden look upon the American flag-blanketed bases in his homeland without envy? Yeah, right. Even now if I imagine my Trump-hating relatives (the BLMer up the street), I have to ask myself, when they see the Red, White, and Blue, does not the same awe and wonder that pulses through my body pulse through their body, leaving only goosebumps in their wake? Surely!

All this to say I’m thinking about a tattoo. And a vinyl wrap for my truck. And a flag pole for my truck. And a few T-shirts, starring you know which object of admiration.

Flawless execution. The American man has always known. Now all do.

You never hated Trump. It wasn’t the red ballcaps that disturbed your baser passions. From birth you had it out for Truth. Then you couldn’t stand to work hard and your lack of self-control was only outdone by your envy. Later you wouldn’t accept that you were born into a world which demanded, and did not apologize for its insistence, that you accept responsibility. Afterward, you furnished any and every argument, from weak to completely unfounded, against accountability. Finally, it has been revealed that your ignorance of history is only to be silenced by your cry to change it.

RNC vs. DNC, In A Word

The messaging is now formal and official. In this great contest for the supposed “soul” of America, tonight the RNC formally unleashed its claim. That claim: AMERICA!

This, of course, is in response to the DNC claim: INTELLIGENCE!

And so, it’s on.

Which are you going to vote for?

People who think they’re smarter than everyone?

Or people who think America’s greater than everywhere?

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.

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.

Renaming the Bible

As I mentioned, I was recently in Judges. Then the last few days, I have been studying Thessalonians 1&2.

I don’t want to rename the Bible. Moreover, I wouldn’t be able to. The idea is ridiculous. But I would like to share what I would call it, that is, in an imaginary world.

I’d call it… Actually I can’t put it into words.

It’s something like a self-help book that teaches you how to accept happiness in your life.

“Accept Blessings”. That’s about as close as I can get. But that sounds like an military order, not a book title.

“How to Accept Blessings” might be more accurate, but now I don’t know if I would have ever picked up a book with that title.

All I’m really trying to say is that the more I read the Bible, the more I see that people around me do not know how to be happy, how to make two good decisions in a row (let alone how to add a third), and the more I see that even when life doesn’t appear to be unfolding in our favor, it is.

Put another way, the starring character, Jesus, is supposed to have said, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” And you won’t find that information anywhere else but in “Accept Blessings.”

See? That’s just not powerful.

Trying again.

And you won’t find that information anywhere else but in “How to Accept Blessings.”

Hmm. That’s definitely worse.

I guess we’re stuck with: And you won’t find that information anywhere else but in the Bible.

Let’s Play Ball Instead of Panicking

More in the “diary” vein of blogging.

We don’t have a tv. Consequently, my step-son doesn’t watch movies or tv on the regular. Every once in a while I show him something on the laptop. Last night was Sandlot. He noticed this one as I searched for Goonies the last time, and so I figured it’s a good wholesome film and it might even set him up with the desire to attempt some baseball in the coming season. It’s also uncannily about a boy moving in with a step-dad (who won’t let him touch his stuff) and being new to the neighborhood–all true-to-life circumstances for A-.

Let’s play baseball again. This post serves as my call for MLB to return to the field. Despite not being the most fanatic fan, I still cannot imagine an American summer without America’s past-time. Sooooo, instead of canceling summer, let’s cancel panic and play ball. I’ll be there the minute the gates open.

Second, and I hid this point on purpose, we need to talk about what panicking is. Actually I can’t. I shouldn’t. I want to, but I won’t.

Suffice it to say, I’ve instructed my family to not buy a toilet paper pack bigger than 18 rolls the next time we find any. 18 is the size we’re currently on, having purchased it back in February sometime before any of the hysteria. So that’s why. But from now on, if the choice is 18+ pack vs. 4-pack, then we get the 4-pack. Someone has to set the example.

What are we going to do without toilet paper? After a quick internet search, I’ve come to resolution. Cloth rags and a diaper genie. And probably a lot less fast food.

You all are going to have to live with the fact that you panicked. I’m going to have some extra laundry.

But maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to claim that I encouraged others to end the hysteria.