A Mohs Scale of Moral Hardness

25 September 2017

Generalizing is profitable for bookies, but it can lead individuals astray. Still, it often has merit.

The Mohs Scale of Mineral Hardness is a list of ten exemplars from Talc to Diamond.

The Ali Scale of Testostitude has only six exemplars, taken from around the armed services. These are averages, your mileage may vary.

Second from the bottom is (two) the Air Force, my own Cowards’ Corps, with the shortest (at six weeks, and probably easiest) Basic Training program. Enlistees could take comfort from the knowledge that they served in the branch where the OFFICERS did the fighting. No marchin’ in the mud for us, and no gettin’ shot down neither.

Moving up the ranks, so to speak, we have (three) the Navy (eight weeks Basic), (four) the Army (nine weeks), and (five) the Marines (with twelve demanding weeks of grueling slogging miserable Basic drill drill drill).

For the seriously majorly ballsy, we have our Diamond Echelon (six), draft dodgers. I signed up, and I’m still glad I did, but I respect draft dodgers more than any other group in society. The Marines only have to face the enemy. Draft dodgers are up against their own government, their colleagues, their families, sometimes their whole country.

And that’s why Ali is The Greatest.
(no disrespect intended to Alice Kramden)

Oh! And (one) the Bottom of the Scale? That delicate tender Talc of Testostitude? The generally least ballsy members of society? NonVets and nonGIs who wear camo-print leisurewear or put bumper stickers on their cars virtue signaling their “support for the troops.” It shows all the conviction and ethical fortitude as coming out against cancer or chickenpox.

update 200911:  Peculiar metrics appear and raise questions.  What are our natural tolerances?  Things can be “too clever by half,” or so I’ve heard.  But is it okeh if it’s just a little too clever, by, say, a third?  Can they be insufficiently clever by a third, or is that acceptable?  The apparent social range seems to run from insufficiently clever by a quarter to about too clever by a third.  This would embrace the mid-range norms,  mainstream “midwits,” and the trainably slow, but still exclude the most egregious deviants:  the annoyingly uber snarky, and hopeless retards like myself.

Exit Interview

210118.6:  When… your best friend was upset because of [your] talking shit about [spokemodels], he talked with you about it.  Instead of caring that your hurt him, your [sic] had to write things about calling him a whiny bitch &c, and then [posted?] it publicly.  When I talked to you about both saying it and saying it publicly, you took it down in English, but needed to repeat it in your secret language, so that he would know you really still meant it.  Why would you treat him like that?
210122.6:  I’m having trouble following you here.  “Instead of” strongly suggests that I do not care, thus precluding the notion that one cares about more than one thing at a time.  So I’m not sure that’s precisely the case, or would ever be relevant if it were.  Aren’t we all often beset by conflicting cares?  Anyway, I don’t remember how “talking shit about [spokesmodels or spokesmodelling] led to his “barking like a bitch.”  I believe the “pouting like a punk” event was precipitated by my unsatisfactory attention to weeding and other aspects of “curb appeal.”  That’s still my failure, of course, just not the one cited, but still good enough to hang me.  As I recall it, the “barking like a bitch” comment was lauding a step TOWARD clarity, which I would hope we’d all prefer.  Since I assiduously couch identities in super-heroic garb, there is little risk of “public” exposure, but I still attempted to bury the frank commentary in cipher (that being how “little” I care.)  I’m afraid I never understood the concept of “you take that back” as if a thing could be unsaid.  Why do I try to express myself clearly and candidly?  Because pretense should be confined to the stage or the page.  Or maybe I’m squeamish.  Or incompetent!  There we go, that gives me less credit!  Incompetent — I’m not very good at casual lies.  It has nothing to do with character.  (This has not been a very good answer, even aside from the rambling.  In my defense, though, I think it was also not a very good question.  I can see that I’ve missed the point, but I’m still not sure what that point actually is.  This may have been one of those “rhetorical questions” that Earth people like to play with instead of actually communicating.)
221006.6:  This is a curious assumption.  Do “best friends” NOT allow each other to have contrary opinions?  Do “best friends” lose their shit over bad jokes?  Do “best friends” predicate their relationships on lies?  I was clearly deluded in my belief that I actually HAD “best friends.”  I guess I know better now.  Thanks for that revelation, at least.

 210118.7:  Have you decided you want to end your relationship with us, but are too afraid to talk to us about it or discuss issues, so you decide to do things to [make so (sic)] that we will end it with you, and you can say it was our doing?  Why is that important to you?
210329.7:  I have not (consciously) decided to end these relationships, but I AM afraid to discuss anything that either of you might find contentious, or even that I might find amusing.  I used to be able to discuss concepts and archetypes and stereotypes and airplanes falling out of the sky.  Now I’m just mean or condescending.  After all, I only vote the way I do, and write what I write, so I have an excuse to look down on other people (who have very loudly “GIVEN [ME] MONEY.”)  That’s probably also the reason I say stupid shit about retarded techs and sedentary clerks and middle management martinets.  My disagreements with you apparently have nothing to do with sober analysis; they are all personal attacksMaybe I’m resigned to making people mad so I can avoid the pain of deciding to end something I’ve cherished.  I’m not sure why I would want to end something I cherish, but what do I know about what I feel?  Maybe I don’t want to see that I don’t cherish it as much as I dread it.  Maybe I’m stupid and don’t know when to shut up.  Maybe I’m a self-absorbed and selfish bully who delights in manipulating your emotions.  (Amazingly, bullying no longer requires an imbalance of power, so I’ve learned to “bully” people with tactical advantages over me.)  I don’t know that it is important to me.  I don’t know how I conveyed that it is important to me.  Maybe I don’t want to see how important it is that I never achieve the type of relationship I’ve allegedly pursued all my life.  Maybe I don’t believe I deserve to be happy.  Maybe I don’t value reason and coherence and patience and tolerance as much as I think.  Maybe I thought we shared a common regard for honesty and clarity and decency and… yay sports…
220918.7:  I’m still not certain how it was established that hurting, belittling, befuddling people, or otherwise manipulating their emotions, was “important to [me].”  It hurts that you’d believe that but based on the weight and concentration of the invective since 7/19, and the well-known principles of projection, it should not have been a surprise.
230113.7:  I can say, clearly, and in English (even if that’s just another way of my looking down on people), that all of my offenses, and the consequences thereof, were my doing.  If it was absolution you sought, you have it; all sins are mine.

210118.8:  Are you [“willing?” -or- “able?”] to examine yourself and your motives, and look at yourself honestly?  210421.8:  I’m definitely willing.  In fact, I think I’ve generally been pretty harsh with me, but I’m still not certain that it’s really possible.

210118.9:  Are there issues you had with us and should have discussed with us that you have been suppressing?  If so, what?
210421.9:  Probably, but I dasn’t.  When things are nice, I would like them to remain nice.  When people are upset, I want them to be nicer.  Complaints are conflict, and conflict begets anger, and anger begets violence.  I bear what I can bear.

210118.T:  How do you think we should/can go on from here?
210421.T:  Boy shit howdy!  You got me on that one!  My “go to” on events like these is generally to be as conciliatory, cooperative, and compliant as I can manage (if that’s not a poor choice of a word), as often as necessary, or until I’m completely spent.  Like hysteresis in spring steel, though, push me away enough and eventually I’ll stay pushed.

When desire collides with reality, I experience frustration.
And when expectation collides with reality, disappointment.
But when disappointment colludes with frustration,
I experience marriage.

Exit Interview

“When a chick says you need to talk,
you might as well start punching yourself in the balls.”
— Eric Cartman

210118.1:  In what manner do you put serious thought into decisions affecting your work, financial stability, or the future for yourself, or your friendship with us?
210121.1:  I’m not convinced that I ever put much “serious thought” into my decisions.  It seems that most of my decisions have been impulsive and emotional.  When employed I would do the best that I could, and watched the rewards go to those who knew how to do less while impressing more.  I’d given up any expectations of “financial stability” long ago when my employment track record became unmistakably clear.  I would have no financial security.  I would just have to work very hard for as long as they would let me, and then they would replace me with someone nicer.  In the meantime, I would try to be careful about my expenses while being attentive to my personal and social desires.  It’s been a precarious balancing act for a long time, but finally Social Security and the VA have promised to catch me if I fall too hard.  The plans I had for my future involved space travel and exploration and building grand structures in orbit where people could pursue lives of health, beauty, prosperity, and longevity, and a supportive multi-faceted family with redundant support for infants and the infirm.  My current plans are to keep writing and to see if I can ever figure out how to sell any of it without debasing myself.  I once yearned for and expected that your friendship would be a part of all that.  It could be that you have other plans.  I have backed off on the masonry and other presumptions that seem to have engendered resentment.  I don’t know whether I should keep backing away from anticipated new offenses, or just “rip off the band-aid” and run.  As ever, I am in the grip of paralysis as my desires collide with reality.

210118.2: Why did you not tell us you quit your job for 1½ months, and then do it through “FascBuch?”
210119.2:  Isolation has compromised my communications skills, but not my counting skills.  I believed (accurately, as it turns out) that that would be provocative and would merit a more thorough discussion and meticulous analysis than telephone communication could afford.  Realizing that the logistics really didn’t permit that kind of luxury, I composed what I thought was a detailed description of my circumstance, and, deeming it the second best approach, put that up on my ‘b log.  Then of course, awaited the inevitable, and, clinging desperately as ever to optimism, hoped that it could come at the most opportune of moments, when we could drop the filters and speak.  It was, I believe, the end of August when I was dismissed, and checking the time stamp on the ‘b log, I read, “2 September 2020,” which makes about a week, I guess. I don’t know when or whether (I guess I must have) I might have echoed it to FascBuch, or when you might have seen it.  So I guess the short answer is I’m clumsy, and cowardly, and optimistic, and stupid.

 210118.3: Why did you stop masking, etc when you knew how important it was to us, and then double down by posting all sorts of stuff on Facebook and your blog showing disdain for those who think masks are important?
210120.3:  I “stop masking” every time I exit a private property confinement that requires masking for occupancy.  I have followed, and will continue to follow, the prudent masking and distancing protocols that you’ve requested prior to visiting.  I have not discontinued my practice of “singling down” on the differences between “important” and “urgent” and “everything.”  My disdain is not for those who consider provisional masking to be prudent, or even important, but for those whose posture and rhetoric and highly charged emotional response reveal that, to them, masking is everything, and any deviation therefrom is tantamount to reckless endangerment or depraved indifference to human life or safety.  I am not killing anyone’s Grandma by breathing freely (except, of course, in the sense that I threaten innocent strangers every time I take my car onto the road or dislodge a rock from an elevated hiking trail), though arguably Frau Braun did kill L’Historienne‘s and Stargazer’s and The Enumerator‘s and all their cousins’ Grandma through her cruel and oppressive “quarantine of terror.”
210327.3:  It is clear now that my isolation has rather less to do with any actual dangers from an aggressive virus than it does with my disgracefully offensive attitude.  It is not enough to PRACTICE the protocol; one must take pains to avoid discerning any of the costs or disadvantages of the single-minded pursuit of security.  The “invitation [wa]s rescinded” NOT because I wasn’t assiduously masking and distancing, but because, while I WAS assiduously masking and distancing, I was also expressing honest (albeit game and sarcastic) skepticism of its efficacy, AND celebrating instances of enlightened (or selfish and stupid and potentially murderous) masklessness.  It’s like adhering to the Dicta of the Christ without acknowledging His Divinity.  Gods (Hebrews 11:6) are not alone in their jealousy.  Obedience without faith is empty.

210118.4:  Were you purposely posting the anti-mask stuff on Facebook in order to communicate with me without [talking to me?]  Is this a way of telling me, I’m not going to “tell” you what to do?
210121.4:  I was purposely posting skeptical and sarcastic comments and images regarding universal masking protocols as a way of evoking emotional responses from the righteously confident.  I have learned over the decades that logic has no power over faith, but that shock, surprise, anger, and humor have.  I oppose wide scale masking because it is wasteful, cruel, and counterproductive.  I would no more mask every healthy being, particularly children (!), than I would issue every GI his own personal nuke.  There is a common thread binding hypervigilants of all sects.  They act as if they believe in one overriding and all-consuming threat.  Maybe I WAS talking to you.  I didn’t think so at the time, but I am now saddened to realize it.  So, on the second question of this section, maybe “Yeah.”  This does appear to echo my previously stated intention to never mask unless… blah blah blah… private property, and… blah blah blah… compromised immune or pulmonary system, or… blah blah blah… the neonatal or infirm…
220801:  I would never presume to “tell” anyone that they may not establish conditions for access to their own property, and as a guest on yours I have usually attempted to subordinate my immediate inclinations to your requirements.  Whether it is smoking tobacco in the house, or burning leaves outside of it, I have tried to honor your wishes and to follow both the letter and spirit of cited conditions.

210118.5:  Did you follow our requirements for you isolating before coming down here for your last few visits, or did you decide we were over-reacting and you were willing to take the chance of infecting us?
210121.5:  Knowing the nature of viral infections, I have risked your lives and health since 1981.  I did follow your requirements prior to the last few visits, but only because I am not comfortable with casual lies.  I thought that I’d made it clear that I believed that you were over-reacting when you’d asked, and I have, since the re-emphasis of your… concerns… practiced both the letter AND spirit of the protocol prior to visits.  And IF a virally laden droplet were to land on the wet welcoming membrane of your eye, or Bud‘s, or mine, completely bypassing the arguably effective facial mask just below its entryway, and was later exhaled into common space, and then taken up by the more vulnerable, and one were to sicken and die… it would be MY fault and I could never be forgiven.  Even if we practiced assiduous scrubbing and masking and distancing, as long as none of us wears goggles, we are vulnerable to a very real (if vanishingly small) chance of infection.  Being so distrusted as I am, how could it be OTHER than my fault?  No denial could have any weight coming from a convicted liar.

25 February 2023 — to be continuing… when I’m up for the next wave…
Neither the Irish, nor Russians, nor Hillbillies are inclined to put down a perfectly good grudge. (Slaps roof.)  “This baby’s got decades on it, yet!”  And while I’m only part Irish, and not Russian at all, I was immersed in hillbilly culture growing up — forced on me by an angry little step-father with an exaggerated Napoleonic complex.

29 April 2023 — Q1:  Okeh… so no questions at all, just sadness and scorn.  And a tantalizing reference to a “book,” with or without a message.  Big talk or procrastination?  Hawthorne, Huxley, or Nourse?  And that’s just assuming it is one of my lost treasures, rather than an overdue(?) retaliation on behalf of tribe, alliance, or ideology.  Maybe that IS the “message.”  “Book” has been used as a metaphor before, and I am not sure that’s not the case now.  Or the even more obvious possibility of taunting.  But most likely, it is the benign and innocent act of procrastination, so I will neither offer nor request more anon until persuaded otherwise.  And while my faith remains insignificantly tiny, my hopes remain great.   Hope may be a poor plan, but it’s an effective palliative, on a par almost with laughter itself.

Richard Milhous Nixon Brave Brave Sir Robin Axis Greigh

11 August 2015

I fear that Milli is no more. I last saw her on the evening of July 2nd when I let her out to do her savage jungle bit. No sign of her the next morning. I didn’t think a great deal of it, about a half a dozen times over the past few summers she would “go feral” and be missing for two or three days, then return completely unconcerned about the emotional trauma I’d endured. I probably deserved it, considering what I’d put my own family through. But nevertheless, after shouting through the woods and walking through the neighborhood and visiting the local animal shelter, and revisiting old haunts. I’ve just about given up on her. There’s no telling. The likeliest scenarios that I imagine are that she’s run afoul of a bigger and meaner animal out in the wild, her aging body finally betrayed her during a critical leap and she plummeted to mortal injury, or, my personal favorite: She went out, had herself a good romp, a good shit, and a good hunt. She curled up on a comfy pile of leaves, went to sleep with a belly full of fresh rodent, and slipped peacefully into The Great Pain-Free.

She’s not saying. I miss her, and I’m lucky to have known her.

Put the High Hurdles Up Front

26 October 2021

As a lifelong asshole I think it is very important to tell as much of the truth as I can bear (which is generally more than is advisable, but I’m retarded, so I err on the side of caution) and to put the highest hurdles in the front.  By “hurdles” I mean my personality flaws that most people interpret as “looking down” or “acting superior.”  Like most of my favorite literary characters (Sherlock Holmes, Mark Duquesne, Stringer Bell, or Brainiac 5), I have a very hard time sustaining the pretense that people are not fools.  That usually filters out the most of humanity from giving a shit about what I might be all about, but still allows the very finest people to get through and actually talk to me.  I also don’t pretend that I’m not a fool, either, but that seems to be of little help.  It’s no guarantee that they’ll still put up with my crap, and of course it’s always going to be my fault, but I still feel a lot less guilty about tricking anyone.  I’ve managed to convince a couple of brilliant and talented women to bear my children, but eventually, they’d had enough, too.

For a while it is very rewarding.  I never made any conscious effort to “meet people.”  I just did what I loved, and I met people who loved what I loved.  I guess that was the first and highest hurdle they cleared.  Still, common interests can make for a firm foundation for a relationship.  Telling the truth (but not too much) can also help, but that’s trickier.

But most people are awful, and I can do without them, though a rarefied minority are well worth the effort.  Eventually they realize that I am not.  But when they bail on me, it is generally for smaller causes than larger.  It often turns out I’m not as funny as they thought, and sometimes they wonder why they ever thought I was worth their time in the first place.

But at least I don’t feel guilty about lying to anyone.
I feel badly about telling them the truth.

(Just in case this escaped you, let me repeat:  I also don’t pretend that I’m not a fool, but that seems to be of little help.)

211026 – After the Refuge
With their hearts they turned to each other’s hearts for refuge.”

Diva Dearest may have had a point, and I was not blind to it at the time, but I didn’t think that that was the case.  She had begun to regret her agreement to the open basis of our marriage, and violently at times, when Sugar and I were still in the throes of fresh infatuation.  This of course like Early Riser‘s objections before her, was after her own presumably satisfying (or embarrassing) trysts.  As long as it worked for them, it was a good idea, but once it showed signs of working for me, it wasn’t.

Anyway, at the time, as I struggled to balance my desires and adhere to my commitments, she began to insist that I was “exchanging love’s bright and fragile glow for the glitter and the rouge” of disappointment.   Sugar has since had her fill of me, and neither Early Riser nor Diva Dearest are clamoring to take me back.  Diva Dearest has remarried, and even died, and Early Riser is content to dandle her grand-babies and to bask in the glory of her lord Christ Jesus.

And me?  I’m left with “the glitter and the rouge.”

Thanks to Jackson Browne for the stolen lyric (“Before the Deluge.”)
He said it best already, so I shan’t attempt to improve on it.

in re illustration by Gene GonzalesTinya Wazzo (Phantom Girl, ®WarnerCom) & Kitty Pryde (Shadowcat, ®MausenKorp) demonstrate why “Tag” never caught on on Bgtzl,
home world of Tinya‘s phantom race.

Gay Frogs Aren’t Funny

180703 — Does Donald Trump use the Federal Reserve and the United States Treasury Department to funnel funds to his friends in the Kremlin to support their shared anti-woman, anti-trans, anti-gay, anti-worker, anti-environmental, white supremacist agenda?

We may never know until we conduct a thorough and complete
audit of the F’eral Reserve, find out how they framed Hillary,
who’s funding Russian Collusionwhat happened to America’s gold,
and why the frogs are turning gay!

a correspondent [enquires after my intent and sincerity]…
… wants to know: “What… are you talking about?  Is this supposed to be sarcastic?”  It was intended to be both sincere AND sarcastic.  Sincere insofar as yearning for an audit of the F’eral Reserve (at least!) and sarcastic in the I-stick-my-thumb-in-your-eye kind of way to lefties who reflexively suspect all things Trump.
I’m sorry when I’m neither as clear nor as funny as I intend.

190106 — Why do fools say, “I know, right,” immediately after I’ve corrected them? They clearly DIDN’T know before their correction, and now they’re trying to take credit for it (or even to deny their error.)
But if they didn’t know in the first place, how do they know now?
And how do they know now that I’m not fucking with them?

190924 — Earth People (meter stolen from Randy Newman)

Earth people got… no reason.
Earth people got… no common sense.
Earth people got… no logic at all.

They got… whims and wishes and biases,
They act as if “Give me!” is the same as “please.”
They got… little minds that squirm in delight
When the weaker and the smaller are given a fright.
I can’t take you Earth people!
What’s wrong with you Earth people?
There’s no tellin’ with Earth people down here!

You are seldom abashed and you’re rarely ashamed
As you wallow in your misery and compound jour pain.
You got… little souls that cower in fright
And run from the purifying power of light.
I don’t get you Earth people.
What’s up with you Earth people?
I can’t figure out Earth people at all!

Things that Hep Dudes do that Groovy Chicks must Dig     200412
Gunning your motorcycle for twenty minutes in the driveway. Driving fast!  Braking hard!  Burning rubber! Subwoofers!  Wolf Whistles!  Cat calls! Bar fights.  Soy muffins.  Dressing like a prison hooker?  (The faces may tell us it is “more comfortable” to wear saggy trousers.  The hands tell the truth.  They are constantly pulling them back up.  One does NOT adjust a comfortable fit.  Once again, when the face and the hands tell different stories, believe the hands; faces lie.)

200614 — Anger Therapy 
As a relentless optimist I find good news in unusual places.  After a couple of weeks (the alleged outside incubation period) of angry and courageous demonstrations against “systemic racist bigotry” (an issue upon which you are likely to find agreement among about 99% of Americans), we find no significant new outbreaks of Wuhan Flu™.
Apparently, extreme unction (or “woakness”) is as toxic, noxious, and destructive to the CoronaVirusMark19™ as it is to civil society.

210316 — If Only
If I only managed to contract Wuhan Flu™ months ago, AND given it to Sugar and Bud, we’d all likely be over it by now. Okeh… maybe Bud, with his compromised lungs, might have suffered mightily, and maybe even succumbed to it. At any rate, it would likely be all over, and I would be forgiven, or ejected, or forgotten.
But it would be over.

210317 — Now, if she’ll only take “yes” for an answer…
Tad stopped over yesterday, so I reflexively stepped out and talked to him for a bit, inadvertently resetting my to-the-letter microbial mitigation protocol back to day zero (and AFTER hitting the new local ChowMart™ for a gallon of cow juice all properly muzzled up, too!) 
Anyway, he’d come over to request that I feed his cats for the ten days or so that he and the other Fredericks were in Florida.  He hit me with a big bag of kitty kibble, a scoop, and sufficiently detailed instructions, because, of course, I agreed.  They’ll be gone, he says, until Saturday, the twenty-seventh, after which time I shall be free again for casual delivery of your accumulated mail.  Unless something of a more urgent nature arises, at which time I can, if it is judged needful, do a BonzaiExpress™.
Having finally gotten accustomed to the strange new lighting patterns spilling in through the front door, I figured some more disorientation is in order.  I removed most of the cardboard from the bedroom windows, since my metabolism has finally synced up with the daylight.  So now there’s light spilling down the hallway from the bedroom and I frequently find myself stepping that way to shut off the damned lights until I realize…
I managed to get that dead bush ratted out, mostly burned up, and the hole backfilled and levelled, but it is still (mostly) too wet and cold to be outside chasing weeds just yet… but their days (like mine) are numbered!

31 July 2021
I suppose it makes sense for people to assume that I don’t care, or that I’m not hurt when they would otherwise think that I should be. I don’t react right.
I remember carrying a hot and heavy vessel while calmly stating:
“Ow, it’s hot. Ow, it’s hot.” Then I put it down.
“Was it hot?”
“Yes. Very hot.” I had said it was hot so people would not be in my way as I carried it. Other than that useful transmission of information, I didn’t see any point in making any more fuss than that. It wouldn’t have made it burn any less.

4 September 2021
Pushy people don’t like it when you stay pushed

“Can’t you take a joke?”
If it’s actually funny.
“I was just givin’ you a hard time!”
Did I ask for a hard time? Or is my irreplaceable time so valueless that it should be squandered for your amusement?
“Lighten up, dude! It’s just a saying.”
If that means to stop taking you seriously, then thank you.
That would probably be best. Go away now, please.

Memoria and Spoiler Alerts

an excerpt, ex continuo, from The H.E.R.O. Act
(you have been warned)

11 July 2020

Death strikes all around us, and it manages to get closer with every pass.  During the year and a half in which I prepared this work,
I’ve lost some friends  —  two men and a cat.

One of these men was a friend and former colleague of mine.  We worked together at the local QuikkStopp™, which is why I paired Jon Brady with Chuck Partridge.  (In part, it was an echo of Friday Night TV nostalgia.)  Writers are lazy, and it’s easier to steal characters than to make them up and as long as I’m stealing characters I might as well steal their names, too.  If they really are my friends, then they won’t sue me.  Brian was a more casual friend, we were mainly fan-buds, comicbook and sci fi geeks who would occasionally get together for video and weed.  Still his death, by suicide, was startling and disturbing, both saddening and angering me.  Obviously, I, like so many others, wonder how I failed to save him, even as I realize that I, like so many others, probably couldn’t.  That’s why I created Brian James, so I could save him twice.

“Miss (Callie) Calculation” was a sweet sixteen when she left us.  To salute her I changed the name of the Langdons’ cat, Jasperilla.  Callie loved her Mommy’s lap more than any other, but it sometimes seemed like she would settle for any other.  She was a cuddlin’ bundle o’ joy.

The other of these men was my Mom, Rosalie Grace Williams.

After several years of gentle decline, as entropy took its steady toll, my sister reported that our mother seemed to have taken a bit of a steeper dive of late and that I’d BETTER get in touch with her.  As it happened, I had just finished the first draft of this book and was delighted to telephone and invite her to proofread it for me (as well as a few other confidantes, three of whom are cited up front.)  We had a lovely talk, as usual, and told each other “I love you” and “I miss you” and four days later, on my father’s birthday, she was dead.  I don’t know if I’m that much luckier than most; I’ve generally had a good relationship with my parents, even not so bad when I was a teenager and they were idiots.  Overall, they have both been positive role models, particularly insofar as they have been cordially divorced for some sixty years.  As a child I never heard one raw or unkind word to or about one from the other.  As “adults” we might exchange arch observations over a cold beer (Dad) or a colder whisky (Mom).  As a couple they were maybe not so hot, but as parents they were top notch.

17 November 2022
Au revoir, Tichelle LaBelle.  Bon voyage, mon pauvre petit chat.

holding letters

12 September 2011
Aloha Granny!  Happy impending birthday (which this missive may well miss… but I try.. I try… )  Had an interesting call from Stargazer last night.  Newsy, as it were.  He’s taken a leave of absence from UH (not permanent) to push off his dissertation without missing his deadline and is teaching computer science at UHP.  Major Doma has lost her gig teaching kindergarten (which she loved) but secured a position teaching fifth grade, which apparently she doesn’t love quite so much, but at least she’s still working.  There was… something else… It’ll come to me…
Happy Trails, Pops

3 October 2014
When L’Historienne told me that you’d been dealing with a bout of leukemia I just naturally assumed that she’d misspoken and meant anemia.  Upon seeing you in California and having you regale me with your latest medical adventures, I am just agog.  You are still my hero.  Your strength, your endurance, your Baby-Chow-Face-level resolve (you get knocked down, but you get up again, ain’t no one gonna keep you down!) just continue to blow me away.  Salute.
Well, Sugar certainly puts the “fun” in “funeral.”  Her mom died on the 1st of September, and the sweet, tender eulogy she delivered (after the shaman’s sonorous screed, as befit mom and other family members’ faith) had us all tearing up and laughing in all the right spots.  In all, a balanced expression of the personal loss, a frank and loving look at a life well lived and a legacy cherished, and an honest assessment of human foibles.  I’d thought about asking her for a copy of it to share, as did her siblings, but I decided that it is too context dependent a piece and would not translate well ex familia.
Some idiot deer used my truck to commit suicide in July.  I declined to hang around for the police, as Br’er Buck and I were not likely to exchange insurance data, nor were the fuzz apt to look up his kin.  I carry strictly liability, so I ate the damage, though not my kill.  Too much work for too little reward.  Impact kills are messy and wasteful.
Later in July…  The good news is that Bud did not cream the little girl who dumped her bike.    The other good news is that after swerving off the road and hitting the tree, fracturing seven ribs and two vertebrae, his back hurts like uninvited fuck (no poetry, no flowers, no candy, no lubricants.)  Now I know that doesn’t sound much like good news, but with potential spinal injury, pain is a good sign.  As it turns out, the additional good news is that he is on the mend and his prognosis is bright.  Sugar is recently retired, and now bemoaning her new surprise job, tending to “Mr Helpless.”  I’ve been letting her mow the lawn a little, even though Bud says it counts against me.
As for moi, I am down to zero home grown teeth as of October 2013, but am now vested with fully functional dental substitutes, so I return to enjoying nuts and salad, yet continue to lean on my death-defying smoothies.
Also since October last, I have been excising some thirty thousand words from my masterwork, in preparation for physical publication, even if agents and publishers continue to not touch it.  If needs be I’ll simply foot the bill myself.  My monumental ego demands no less.
Milli and I continue to age gracelessly, as best we can.

Makahiki Hanele

In 2000, running for office for the first time as a Hawaiian resident, with neither a web-site nor an e-mail address of my own, I was invited by Ko’olau News to participate in The Level Playing Field. This was an invitation to all qualified candidates for public office to submit written responses to their questions on a variety of topics that were then posted on their site as a public service to their readership on Windward Oahu. The most memorable and enjoyable of their assignments was to write an essay illustrating what the participants imagined might result from their run for office. Editor Shannon Wood stipulated that the candidate should imagine that he or she was elected to office, and that a fictional reporter or essayist in the year 2059 was describing our impact. Letting my imagination run away with me for a while, this was my response.

Centennial
by Adam Felix Greigh Duquesne
2 Emmalani Street, Kawaihae Village
Onizuka County, Hawaii, usa
Thursday, 6 March 2059

It seems that Pops was right about at least one thing. Alan Greenspan didn’t live forever. Fortunately, we managed to return to the Constitutional Bi-Metallic Standard before the Federal Reserve System was dissolved and monetary authority returned to the Treasury Department.

As I write this today in response to Kiliana’s kind request, it occurs to me that today is the birthday of that veritable savior of the American economy. I’ve taken to flipping a Twenty Dollar gold piece bearing The Maestro’s effigy, a practice that Pops would likely endorse, though he would prefer that Calvin Coolidge had remained on the Twenty and handed a larger piece over to Greenspan’s memory.

But popularity wins out on the more commonly circulating coins, and there’s little chance of shaking Reagan loose from the Five Dollar silver, or Edison from the Deuce, or Ike from the Single, so it’s the Twenty Dollar gold for the last Chairman of the Fed. America will adjust to Cool Cal’s displacement. America has always adjusted.

Maybe I get a little ahead of myself. Mother had a way of reworking Pops’ advice. Pops would say “Open your eyes first and your mouth last.” Mother would simply say “Start at the beginning.” Much more elegant and to the point. Of course, she started out HER political career very simply at the age of nine years by saying, “My Dad is running for Congress. Please vote for him.” Ever to the point.

As for me, well, the son of a President doesn’t have to do anything to distinguish himself. Really, he can’t, unless he pursues the life himself. Not for me. Pops lived for the theatre, and he found the public arena to be the grandest stage of all. Mother followed him and Granny at an earlier age than they started, and soared beyond their wildest accomplishments.

And as for me? Well, I think I’m starting again. Verbosity has always been a Greigh family characteristic. I am the son of our recently retired President. Many of you voted for her. A few of you hated her, three of you tried to kill her, and, according to the polls, most of you loved her.

This story is not about her, or about me, but about her father, my grandfather. I call him Pops, she calls him Daddy, and his supporters know him as Citizen Greigh. His friends call him Lehr. He was a member of the Congress at the beginning of this century, and later our first Libertarian Secretary of State. He would take issue with that, as he claims that Thomas Jefferson was just about our first libertarian everything, but he’s discussing philosophy, and I’m talking party label.

He wouldn’t let the issue go until I clarified it precisely. My grandfather, Lawrence Gene Greigh, after serving as Hawaii’s first Libertarian Representative to the United States Congress, was appointed Secretary of State in America’s first Libertarian Administration. He is an argumentative old cuss now, just starting his second century, and unavailable for comment, as he is vacationing in the Asteroid Belt and almost certainly has his cel-vid disconnected. Since he is unable to speak for himself just at the moment, and Kiliana insists that Ko’olau News has strict deadlines, his legacy is at my mercy.

Pops first ran for the Congress in 1982 at the delicate young age of 26, still wet behind the ears, still fresh from his service in the United States Air Force, and still an undergraduate at Oregon State University studying physics and mechanical engineering.

In those days, the Libertarian Party did not enjoy the universal ballot status that it does today. In fact, it, and many other “third parties”, were quite ruthlessly excluded by the “Democrat” and “Republican” parties, who have since joined the Federalists and the Whigs in historical oblivion. Today, with universal suffrage, liberal ballot access requirements, and proportional representation in most States, the “Bipartisan” stranglehold on political consciousness is as obsolete as slavery, witch hunts, and the “war on drugs”.

Anyway, since Libertarians were not on the ballot in Oregon in 1982, Pops ran a very modest write-in campaign. He got very little attention from the press (as they tended in those days to focus on the “horse race” aspects of a contest, rather than the ideas of the candidates), and fewer votes. The next fourteen years are a little fuzzy. He remained interested in politics and the theatre, I guess, but it wasn’t until 1996 that he ran again. Again from Oregon’s Fifth District, and this time the Party enjoyed hard won ballot status that would not be snatched away by incumbent perfidy. His modest showing in ‘96 (just under 2%) did nothing but encourage him to press his case. He was resolved to run again and again every two years, building his name recognition, widening his network of support, training himself, refining his approach, and, as he likes to say endlessly, “banging his drum.”

Life intervenes, Mother quotes John Lennon: “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

Pops did not run in ‘98, as he’d intended after the ’96 election. He even toyed with the notion of entering Oregon’s Republican Primary for the sake of expediency and “respectability”. Fortunately he managed to avoid so base and superficial a scheme. He confessed to me when I’d asked him about it that he “wanted to win, and if I couldn’t win, I’d like at least to be taken seriously.” Stubbornness won out, thanks in part to circumstances (about which more anon), and he reconciled himself to Libertarian loyalty and possible “third party” obscurity. He couldn’t have been luckier. It turns out the “obscurity” was a kinder and gentler fate than Republican oblivion, but that would take a while.

Circumstances, on the other hand, will ever intervene in our lives. Due to a combination of factors (professional dissatisfaction, wanderlust, and Granny’s precarious health in those days, in the summer of 1997, Pops and Granny packed up Mother and the rest of their lives, and moved to the Big Island. “For the first time in my life,” says Pops, “I knew I was home. This is where I will plunge in my roots.” So they settled in to their new homeland, bought this very house that they later sold to me, and proceeded to firm up their new network.

“Your Grandfather is very good at taking the credit,” says Granny, “but the truth is I had to push him every step of the way. He wouldn’t have done it without me.”

“We couldn’t have done it without us,” answered Pops. “Moving here or buying this house or rebuilding half of it. It was all teamwork.”

Sometimes Granny just smiles and lets him have the last word. He does seem to enjoy it so. They’re very good for each other. Still they squabble endlessly. Two months ago at their 70th wedding anniversary they were dubbed “The Bicker Brats” by my great uncle. That one actually shut Pops up for almost thirty seconds, during which time Granny couldn’t stop laughing.

So anyway, back on track. Because they had the logistical consideration of the moving and the house and the new jobs and Granny’s health issues, Pops took a pass on the ‘98 elections. He excused himself as follows: “I insist that I will always have a Libertarian to vote for for the rest of my life. I’m done with voting against. In 1998 Noreen Chun was on the ballot, and I was proud and pleased to vote for her, and even willing to stand aside if she wanted to take it on again in Y2K. But I will always vote for a Libertarian, even if it has to be me.”

Since 1996 he has managed to keep that pledge to himself and to America, always voting for a Libertarian, and through the Noughties, either voting for his election, or re-election, and later his successors in the House, after he’d moved on into the Cabinet.

During the first few elections of the century, Libertarians started trickling into the Congress. Once they finally precluded either the Republicans or the Democrats from achieving an outright majority, the Libertarian micro-minority exhibited astonishing innocence. They were naïve enough to expect one party or the other to approach them and propose a coalition majority with a libertarian tilt. But, when the Bipartisan Super-majority coalition was formed instead it first looked to be pretty grim, as Libertarians were excluded from any meaningful committee assignments.

The maneuver, however, soon backfired. The voting public began to realize that forty years of Democrat control produced dangerous inflation, hideous wars, and suffocating regulations. Another decade of Republican control, rather than turning anything around, increased the budget, increased taxes, and increased regulations. After two years of undisguised Bipartisan collusion, it became clear to all but the most dedicated partisans that the “Me-Too Party” and the “More-of-the-Same” Party were as different as night and evening.

The next election produced a mix of Libertarians and Greens and Constitutionalists and a few Bipartisan vestiges, but America hasn’t gone back, and as the practice has proven the premise, the Libertarians continued to gain ground until they finally achieved the outright majority that they have enjoyed since. The Greens and the Cons and the Dems and the Reps have since joined Libertarian ranks, or collapsed into the Socialist Party, and America is once again a two party system. That seems to be our fate. America has always adjusted.

And we’ve had a great deal to adjust to. As the Sovereign State of Hawaii celebrates its centennial, we fly a flag with (so far) fifty-four stars. For a few months only it was Alaska, and then for almost fifty years Hawaii was America’s “New Kid on the Block.” Puerto Rico joined the Union in 2008, just a year short of Hawaii’s Golden Jubilee, and just in time to get in on the States of the Union Commemorative Quarters Celebration.

With two native Spanish speakers in the Senate, and seven new Hispanic Congressmembers, Anglo-chauvinist hysteria almost undid us, but also led us quite naturally to accept Jamaica and Belize when they petitioned for cession in 2016. And that makes only fifty-three stars on our flag.

Like Alan Greenspan, it turned out that Fidel Castro also could not live forever. After his final heart attack, Senor Ortega struggled for a couple of years to hold it together, but a half century of socialist mismanagement had reduced Cuba to the most impoverished basket case in the hemisphere. After Bay of Pigs II, there was little resistance to the notion of bringing Cuba home. It still has the lowest standard of living, the highest infant mortality, the shortest life expectancy, and the greatest illiteracy of all the States, but it has come a long way, and Governor Ros assures us that it will soon close the gap with Mississippi, Alabama, and Puerto Rico.

The notion of Statehood for the District of Columbia was neatly short-circuited by the passage of the 28th Amendment, which Pops introduced in his first term in the House. DC gave up its three Electoral College votes for President, but in return received an actual voting Representative in the Congress. No Senators, of course, as they are strictly reserved for the States. Briefly, for those of you who don’t keep track of such things, the 28th Amendment grants representation in the Congress to all Federal Districts, Territories, Possessions, and Protectorates in proportion to their actual numbers just as if they were States, but no representation in the Senate. In addition, it grants these same entities Presidential Electors equal in number to their representation in the Congress. At present, then, DC has one member, Samoa has one, the Lunar Settlement has one, and Guam and Saipan and the rest of the Marianas have two altogether.

Back home in these islands, the pace has been a little slower, but the changes have been inexorable.

The Sovereigntist/Secessionist movement reached its crescendo at about the same time that Libertarians achieved their first working majority coalition with the Republicans and the Constitutionalists. As federal assets were being divested to resolve the debt and retire Social Security, Pops included the “Millennial Mahele” rider. Those federal lands not essential to national security, nor having unique historical significance, were returned to all the peoples of the islands on the basis of ancestry, nativity, and longevity. The ancestry component was his only public racist act and he refuses still to apologize for it.

“We are all Hawaiians, whether we were born here or not,” he said when he introduced the amendment, “whether our ancestors arrived here from the Marquesas or Tahiti, from India or Indonesia or Indiana. We all deserve a piece of the pie, but some of us are going to get bigger pieces. Crimes were committed against the Hawaiian people and the Hawaiian nation, but the criminals are all dead and the original victims are all dead. We are left to pick up the pieces. This is my compromise. For every year you’ve lived here you get credit. For being born here you get credit. For paying taxes here you get credit. For tracing your grandparents in these islands to the eighteenth century you get credit. How much remains to be seen. The catch is, you stop your whining and get on with your lives. Now let’s hammer out the details.” And of course, Hawaii has adjusted to all the extra private property. There are a few competing nativist enclaves, and by and large the Hawaiian language and culture continue to flourish. It is, after all, an integral part of our unique heritage. And of course the whining hasn’t stopped, but at least the volume has been turned down a bit.

When the Democrat/Green/Socialist dominated Senate attempted to push through the Inter-Island Highway System, and the Lib/Rep/Con controlled House killed the measure, Pops nearly lost his job. But with the economy newly stimulated by the substantial tax cuts and regulatory relief, with the population increasing on the neighbor islands while Oahu’s flattened out, some investors took the notion and ran with it.

Inside of two years, a system of tunnels had linked Oahu and Molokai and Maui and Lanai. Later, when Kahoolawe was finally cleaned of live ordnance by violent criminal petitioners (with surprisingly few casualties and all the promised commutations), it and the Big Island were connected to the traffic grid.

Of course the airline lobby shrieked and howled that the tunnels were a threat to public safety. And it is a matter of knee-jerk reflex among the Socialists and the last remaining Greens that the State Government should seize the tunnels from the predatory Road Company and operate them for the benefit of all Hawaiians, rather than let them enrich a few greedy investors. Most people, however, rather enjoy driving from island to island and don’t mind tossing a few silver coins into a wire basket (or delivering their numbers up unto the beast; choose your lane). We remember what air travel used to cost, both in money and in time. It’s faster to drive.

Besides, even among the tunnels there is competition, if you don’t mind driving the long way around sometimes. After NASA built the magnetic induction track from Puolo Point to the peak of Mauna Kea to launch cargo canisters into orbit, it leased space on the structure to other investors so there is now an express route from Kauai to Hawaii, with links to the southern coasts of all the islands it passes.

I’m going to have to wrap this so I can get back to work, but before I depart I’ll leave you with this last bit. Since Mother left office there has been talk of Pops returning to the public arena and making another run at the White House. Twelve years as Vice President under two separate Presidents apparently hasn’t cured him of the notion, so he refuses to rule it out. I think he’s actually taking the idea seriously.

America will have to adjust.

update 180110: Blue sky predictions — especially the self-serving variety — are reliably embarrassing in retrospect. Alan Greenspan may yet live forever. I’ve got another four decades for the universe to improve my point spread. That’s all I can hope for at this point, as I’ve clearly lost the overall game. I was not elected. The march of Fed Chairs continues post Maestro. We have no circulating Hard Money in America, though the Confederate Mint, the Liberty Dollar, the Lakota Republic, and a host of others (metallic and cybernetic) are making inroads. I’m also rather less enamored these days of Dr Greenspan, in light of further performance by him and a little more study on my part.

I don’t now see a resurgence of the “Socialist” brand name. It’ll have its adherents, but never “major party” status. In a generation or so, at the present rate, I picture a major Libertutionist/Constitarian fusion party (called Libertarian or something else) and a reunited Democratic-Republican Party, maintaining continuity through a formalization of the Neocon/Leftie Axis. In a generation or so after that they’ll go back to calling themselves Democrats or Republicans but they’ll still be the same Bipartisan Buttinskies that we’ve suffered for centuries.

As my political aspirations waned, I did not retain my “Libertarian purity.” In 2004, briefly, I was a candidate for the Republican Party’s nomination for the Hawaii State House (“Today, I come home”), but bowed out in deference to the superior candidate. If he’d spoken at Hilo when I did I might have saved myself a couple of weeks of wondering, but hey, auditions are fun, too! My lack of partisan fidelity came to its crescendo in 2008, when I could not bring myself to vote for Bob Barr. I didn’t hesitate over Chuck Baldwin, even though he and I are quite distant over substantial social issues. As a Constitutionist, endorsed by Good Doctor Paul, and I believe them both to be sincere federalists, I had no quarrel with seeing Baldwin’s party in Washington City. I just would likely NEVER vote for one of those ultra-religious types for LOCAL office. But as long as they recognize the limits of federal authority, they‘re fine in that sphere.

Granny won’t be making our 70th, and there’s just waiting to see if I will. In addition to graduating into Lethargy Lad’s Rogues Gallery of Former Arch Nemeses earlier this century, she died last summer after years of valiant struggle and heroic optimism. (see Eulogy for a Drama Queen elsewhere in this file)

Our flag still holds steady at the nifty fifty. Frustrating for an expansionist.

And of course, the overall theme of the piece was based on the faulty premise that a “voting public [would begin] to realize” anything beyond the sound bites that most impress their pals. If I ever run again I should change my name to “As Seen On Teevee” That just might give me a dirty-fightin’ chance.

Hidden Messages & a Secret Language

15 December 2001 —
Weed, gop ontimze keyd praxejoy faeodgaev fuqwa kikky, ofgaev skew.  Jolof pfogs sex makspydaxel yu twotooj efmu opf dupd totifos opf, Joowav Ulugyt pdia ofaep opd tjaegu rjintjakkem, iut dupd godum.  Dvontze dej tit wik.  Vwit yikol vawf ed twotooj opf totifot opf tju, Ffikus Pydaxel pdia vpuka yu gewks djoa I rjijgel jix.  Fhentpemz Waxed sexy Ikut opd fux pdjoodsis opd gozlolog fiquamuk mymika wik.  Gozlofot skey pyd51 opdyk wed yodamuf.

14 March 2023 – Ikogs wed rykrow fyfom ojew?
Oihhup oxzy tmaepf opf, pemmuaf qed gop gewks tuem ffomy ojew,
Vawf wed vit ffom koje, gop ojewz wed july ffom ojey…

14 October 2022  — 
“It could be that I uasn’t treiing to hide it FROM jou.
Maibe I uas treiing to hide it FOR jou.”

Manie jears ago, for some reason or another, Earlie Reiser asced me if there uas something I hadn’t told her.  I tried to duc the cuestion, because I am not comfortable uith casual leis, but she persisted.  Finallie, having had enough, I stood up, left the room, and fettjed the neu tea pot and paperbac antholodjie that I had previouslie bought for her upcoming birthdai.  I returned to the room, put them both on the table and said, “There!  Nou I’m no longer leiing to jou!”  Then I left the house to uahc off the anger and to smoac meiself doun (because at the time I uas still a practissing butthead.)

I don’t remember, but I thinc she threu them out.
I guess uinning isn’t all it’s cracced up to be.

9 Mai 2023 — Speacing of anniversaries, I recall that the postmarc on that most emphatic and final epistle of dismissal uas my verie ohn latest (last?) birthdai.  Sometimes things get hrapped up djust a little too neatlie.

15 Mai 2023 — Djust deleted from the comics file.
The GRAPHiC UORC of M.C. Escher
 (Ballantine  1971)  —  tpb
*sigh* So the aforementioned “booc” might also be this one. And this one mai in fact be on its uai to Earlie Riser, hoose given name and ohn hand appear in said volume. That uould be fitting, I suppose. In fact, that’s jet another uai of finding a ponie in this room!
Good shoh! (If fact.)
& huile I’m here todai, I djust uanted to add that I’m loving Marc Uaid’s taic on the current Uorld’s Finest, and even more so Dan Abnett’s retcon on earlie Mar-Vell (and Groot)! Folcs are missing out bei not heeding mei counsel!

30 September 2023 — Ah, RAH!
He shohed us hou to find “Time Enough for Love,”
but he never revealed hou to Maic Room for Lethardjie Lad.

20 October 2023 — Happie Birthdai, Ma’am!
Let us give thancs for jet another jear of leitness and life uithout being bugged (as mutj) or grabbed (at all?).  If Ojuxit is better off uithout me, then I’m glad she’s uithout me.  Other than the lives of mei tjildren, her happiness matters most of all.  Be uell, and be at peass, and mai the sighs of ecsasperation uith Klint and the cats remain at mimimum.
Later todai — Misfired messadje? 
I mai have erred again.  My latest “offense” (on FascBuch) uas sinsere and hopeful and probablie a mistaic.  The date mattjed, and the event uas of sutj a benign purpose that I thought it uould be safe.  It uas libertarian activism, after all, that first brought us together, and that shared ideolodjie uas a firm foundation upon ue’d built a fortie jear friendship.  But todai it mai djust be an annoiing reminder of hou “foolish” she uas to have ever fallen for mei bullshit in the first plaiss.  At least here she can avoid me, even if Klint can’t help himself (in spite of his claim of being a “man of action.”)  On FascBuch, though, all her real friends uill see huat a shmoe she’s shed, and uon’t give her anie credit for the shedding.