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No Means No

I had an epiphany this week. Long story short, my ex-wife of 7 years is holding H- hostage. I haven’t seen my daughter in almost a year.

This all started when I called to say I got a new job in a different state, a much, much better job. Instead of saying something normal like, “Congratulations,” she said, “You’re abandoning your child! I get 100% custody!” (Keep in mind, I wasn’t and she doesn’t. Custody is not even a word in Family Court in our state.)

Naturally, the big picture is a classic “he says, she says” situation. And naturally, she has an attorney who makes her feel incapable of child abuse. But, make no mistake, she’s actively committing child abuse—for what else can kidnapping be called?

Anyhow, the point of this post (did I mention it’s over 7 years after the divorce?) is to highlight the epiphany I had. And this is it.

My ex is still in love with me.

Crazy, right? I know. But it’s true.

Why else would a woman create a parenting plan which requires communication between us in order to coordinate my parenting time? As in, she could have said, “Father picks up daughter on July 16th between 7:00am and 7:01am and returns daughter on July 23rd between 7:00 and 7:01am and if Father doesn’t make these windows, then he forfeits that time or the following time.” But no. She develops a plan which requires that I coordinate every trip with her. In other words, I don’t see my daughter unless I talk to my ex.

If I wanted to talk to my ex, I would’ve said, “I want to talk to you,” not, “No matter how much it costs, no matter if I lose my daughter’s childhood, I never, ever want to talk to you again,” which is the thematic equivalent to, “I want a divorce.”

At first I thought this requirement of the parenting plan was about control. That’s an easy to make mistake, right?

But now I see she’s still in love. It’s sickening, really. She can’t let go after 7 years? And this after having obtained an attorney within 30 minutes of me saying, “I want a divorce”?

Believe me when I say that I am quite a catch. But no means no.

No means no.

And no means no especially now that you’ve revealed the level of commitment you’d stoop to just to get me back inside you. You’re pimping your own daughter. You’re an abomination.

No means no.

Every Man A King; No Man A God.

As usual, I feel like I understand my “opponent” through and through. And as usual, despite my great efforts to understand, for my part, I feel misunderstood. This feeling besets me strongest whenever I read about myself from my “opponent’s” perspective. Upon concluding such reading, I just don’t recognize myself. So I’m asking you, dear, mask-wearing, “woke”, and godless leftist, please, argue with the real me. That’s all I ask. This “being misunderstood”, then, is the problem that this post will attempt to remedy. There are two points to be made before getting to the title claim.

Firstly, regarding masks, those in favor of mandating mask-wearing are doing an outstanding job of analogizing their reasons for wanting to bring the full force of the law into the equation. Most recently, the chorus goes: “It’s common sense, no different than speed limits.” Sticking with analogizing (or stooping down to analogizing–as if adults can’t speak plainly or understand plain speaking), my response is: “No, mask-wearing is not like speed limits. Instead, on the driving theme, mask wearing is like middle-aged men driving sports cars.” Put plainly, my belief is that a pandemic can no more be stopped by a mask than aging can be stopped by driving sexy cars.

Secondly, regarding “woke” as a label, I just learned something fascinating. Did you know that before the Civil War, abolitionists had formed firearm-less militias which trained in the middle of the night and subsequently had the nickname, the “Wide-Awakes“? Take a moment to ponder this fact. In the past, the nickname “Wide-Awakes” was applied to those who remained awake during the night hours in efforts to abolish slavery. And abolish slavery they did. Today, uneducated, over-educated, or mis-educated citizens use the label, “woke”. The difference, denoted by the linguistic variation, is staggering, to my thinking. And if I was hurt and mad and everything the “woke” folks are supposed to be, then I’d want everything to do with “Wide-Awakes” and nothing to do with “woke” if I was trying to accomplish anything, to include how my nickname came to be. My reason is simple. Nothing about being “Wide-Awake” betrays stupidity. As in, ask, “Why are you ‘Wide-Awake’?” And a perfectly sound answer would be, “Because it will take extra effort to overcome business as usual.” Whereas everything about being “woke” betrays stupidity. Ask, “What were you ‘woke’ out of?” The answer will either be a commercial truckload of bullshit or *crickets*. And so I’ll tell you. “You were woke from stupidity. And if you were stupid then, you’re probably still stupid.” Such is life.

Now for the good stuff. I want to record here an observation on the left’s prideful godlessness. The left loves being godless. Good for them. To a Christian, this godlessness is a repugnant, prideful, and foolish idea. But I realized something last night while on a walk. The left may not believe in supernatural gods, like the Christian does. But they do believe that the power typically designated to such supernatural beings is real. How do I know? Because of what they want men to do. Trump is a failure as a leader because of many things, they say. Most recently, the left is holding Trump accountable for his inability to both exorcise racism from the human heart and heal sickness–and not just of one person, but of the millions. For the great majority of history and populations, people voiced these very natural and noble requests as “prayers” to gods. Today, the godless left encourage using “votes.” The problem here, the left’s problem, is not the method or the message. The problem is the recipient. Trump can no more accomplish the left’s demands than can Zeus, Jove, or Allah. But that won’t stop the godless left from holding him accountable. This incoherence is just weird.

Men as gods. Seems like we’ve tried this before. Yes, I’m sure of it.

****

Hey, you! That’s right. I’m talking to you. Get with the program! With the advent of America, July 4, 1776, in this country, every man’s a king. And no man’s a god.

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.

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.

Bamboozled Out of Baseball

I’ve swung back-and-forth quite a bit during this pandemic. The two ends would best be characterized by denial and anxiety. Today something new is bubbling up. I’m beginning to feel like I’ve been bamboozled.

It started as I considered this notion of “essential”. Actually, it started by reading what exactly was “essential” according to the government, and seeing how markedly it differed from my previous understanding of the word.

Now, it continues to build as I focus on how this is exactly how a socialist economic system works: Central planning. In other words, someone, not me, decides what I believe is essential.

Before the pandemic, Americans were doing just fine determining what was essential for their life. If we made a lot of money, we couldn’t live without extravagance. If we didn’t make any money, we survived by driving for Uber.

We were never satisfied with our fancy cars and ever changing diets, or we were eternally grateful to be able to make more money at will.

Now, the government is both feeding us the horrifying information about the disease and determining which parts of our lives are essential. This is a problem.

More pointedly, I just want to repeat that Major League Baseball is essential to summer.

Hey, You! Sleepy-head! Wake up! What is essential to you?

Two Ways Jack Reacher Stayed Healthy

Obviously we watched Jack Reacher last night. I was struck by two parts. The first is when TC explains how, through training and repetition, someone not smart can be made to appear smart. It reminded me of what I was trying to say about illiterate children.

Secondly, my dad told me today that he did not buy the toilet paper that was seemingly destined for him to buy as it sat on the shelf at the store. I repeat: my dad did not buy available toilet paper. Hear me clearly: the toilet paper had his name, in cursive—at least if you look in the right light—on the packaging and he did NOT buy it. Bravo. That reminded me of TC’s answer to the blonde’s anxious query, “Should I be afraid?!” Cruise says, “Are you smart?” Blondie says, “Yes.” Tom then says, “Then don’t be afraid.”

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.