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Corvallis Gazette-Times, 1983

“Choose Memorial Well” (Saturday, 15 January)

Tom McCall’s family has suggested that any intended memorial be contributed in his name to either the Nature Conservancy or the 1000 Friends of Oregon. Such contributions would be altogether fitting, since these organizations represent two of his widely disparate passions.

It is important, though, that we understand the fundamental differences between the 1000 Friends and the Nature Conservancy, so that we can adequately decide how we would like to remember Governor McCall.

The Nature Conservancy is a private organization which purchases tracts of land so that they may be removed forever from the threat of development. This is laudable; individuals, including corporations and organizations, have the right to control their property as they see fit. The Nature Conservancy is an excellent way for committed environmentalists to put their monies where their mouths are.

The 1000 Friends of Oregon, on the other hand, is a cheerleader group for the state Land Conservation and Development Commission, which is dedicated to restricting the peaceable disposition of private property.

So choose well. How shall this stellar figure of Oregon’s history be commemorated? As an advocate of voluntary cooperation, or as a champion of government interference?

update 180109: Thomas Lawson McCall, Oregon’s Governor from 1967 to 1975, remains dead. I never spoke to him, but I did see him once, and cooked his lunch. I was working the grill at Herpy’s (“When you’re a whole lot more than a canker sore!”) late morning in autumn of 1974 when I saw a sleek road cruiser with Oregon plates reading “1” pulling in to our lot.

Counter Lass said, “Is that…?‘

I said, “Yeah. Look’s like the governor’s limo is in our parking lot.”

Manager SS raced out from the back, and just about wet himself as he fawned over The Gov. Since Counter Lass and I were simply going about our jobs, she taking orders and calling them back to me, and me filling them, we acted like he was another customer in our crowded lobby. “They don’t recognize you, sir!” simpered SS. Then he came back and supervised my work, making sure that the Holy Hefty Gut Bomb was not being sabotaged before it reached the Exalted Palate.

It was all very sad, mostly, but a little bit funny, too. Counter Lass and I just smiled and shook our heads sadly, Mr Tom politely endured it, and his aides cringed at manager SS’ performance.

As far as I know, I’ve encountered three of Oregon’s governors. The above mentioned Mr McCall, Mark Hatfield (when he was Oregon’s delegate to the US Senate, at which time we actually spoke a little as I shook his hand and thanked him for his valiant but futile effort to block draft registration), and Vic Atiyeh (at the Oregon State Fair, where we merely made brief eye-contact and said “Howdy,” or “Salaam,” or “Some Such.”)

“We are no threat” (Friday, 9 September)

In an Associated Press story buried on page 21 of the August 7th Gazette-Times (“Marijuana hunting lawmen upsetting residents”), state and federal goons attempt to justify their siege of Trinity County (California) by insisting that “their methods are both legal and professional.”

“Legal and professional.” That description can just as easily be applied to the Soviets’ recent shooting down of Korean Airlines flight 007, or to the Nazis’ slaughter of European Jews. A profession, after all, is what we do to pay the rent, and the law is simply the will of the local government. There is ever a yawning gulf between law and morality.

If an appeal to decency won’t cut it, let me put it in practical terms.

Dear taxpayers: Last year you spent over two hundred mega-bucks in your desperate attempt to stop me from smoking marijuana. It didn’t work. Next year you’ll spend even more; your hired muscle will harass my suppliers, confiscate his property, and possibly kill him as he tries to preserve his liberty and livelihood.

You might even catch me and put me away for a few years. I still won’t stop, any more than you gave up your beer during Prohibition. Just how long do you plan on slamming your head against this particular brick wall? To paraphrase the bumper sticker slogan, “I’ll give up my roach clip when it’s pried from my cold dead fingers.”

Imagine for a moment that the above was written by your son, whose children could be orphaned when he is abducted by the law, or by your workmate, whom you would never suspect of this “vile deed.” Better yet, pick one of your five nearest neighbors. He smokes pot. Shall you condemn him, too? Whose hedge clippers will you borrow while he’s in prison?

Give up this senseless crusade, neighbor. Not only do we surround you, but we are no threat to you or your chosen lifestyle.

update 180109: correspondent ST (GT 9/23) asks, “How does one surround five? Must have been sucking on one of his pot joints when he figured that one.” [heavy sigh] Pot joint? First of all, the proper term is Jazz Cigarette. Get hep to the scene, ST! And now for a little math (sorry drug warriors, I know it’s not your forte.) One doesn’t surround five. One in five doesn’t mean that one surrounds five. In a village of, say, a hundred, one in five means that, if they’re very careful about it, or they just happen to be standing in the right place at the right time, twenty CAN surround eighty.

ST’s seven paragraph screed includes advocating the death penalty for “drug pushers” (me at the Quikk Stopp) and an indictment of humanism, pornography, and the Supreme Court. And he imagines that I smoke reefer as an expression of “‘civil disobedience’ as it is called by the felons who vandalize industry and are idolized by ‘fifth column’ peace marchers.” To the extent that it compels people to bother me I care what they think, but as long as they’re willing to leave me alone I don’t give fuck all for their tender sensibilities. “Civil disobedience”? Please. I smoke it for fun.

“Campaign of corruption” (Friday, 21 October)

To what new depths of depravity will the Gazette-Times descend next in its seemingly endless quest for sensationalism? Last spring we were assaulted by a full-page profile of a local (gasp… shudder) homosexual. This summer it went even further when actual photographs from a nudist convention were published. As if those weren’t disgusting enough, last month the front page was given over to porno king and pot-tax advocate “Spliff” Haschoiel.

Having sufficiently softened up this pure thinking and self-righteous community with its insidious subversion, the GT delivered it coup de grace when, on October 14, a full page glorification of the “pleasures” of gambling was printed. The poor misguided dupes who were pictured probably thought they were having fun as they invited organized crime, narcotics, and prostitution (which everybody knows goes hand in hand with gambling) into Hoskins.

“But wait!” you say, “It’s just bingo!” Just bingo indeed. Now do you see how effective the GT’s campaign of corruption has been? It has actually made people think that organized gambling can somehow be respectable.

What next, GT? Wine tasting? Free speech? Free enterprise? Living peacefully and minding your own business?

Please do not cancel my subscription; I’m having too much fun being outraged.

update 180110: Cards and letters and calls, oh my! Sometimes my comments would touch a nerve. Once, in response to my criticism of official thuggery in the prosecution of The War on (some) Drugs, a local cop and former classmate of mine (taking no pains to disguise his voice) called the house to advise me to think hard about who’s protecting my family.  (“That would be me, Sean.”  -click- )

My favorite response (outside of abject fawning praise) came from an apparent fan of church bingo who opined that if I was “speaking tongue in cheek” then I ought to “bite [my] tongue.”

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The Oregon Libertarian and the Corvallis Gazette-Times, 1982

“An Immodest Proposal” (May 1982, OL)

Much has been made of Central America’s violent conflicts — the confrontations between “fascist right-wing dictatorships” and “communist inspired left-wing terrorists”. The proposed solutions for these American nations runs the gamut of emotion and ideology — from propping up the military regimes in power in El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras, to recognition and economic support for socialist Nicaragua and the struggling revolutionaries.

The most palatable course of action for the United States to take that I’ve heard so far is inaction. That is, we provide (the Union, that is, individuals may do as they please) no support for any actions and let matters take their course. This “course of inaction”, however, provides little hope for those Americans caught in the middle. All they have to look forward to is more of the same from the status quo, or, as in the case of Nicaragua, an exchange of despots.

While it may be too late for Nicaragua, and nearly too late for El Salvador, the problem of the remaining states just may be solvable by the same method used for the former republics of Vermont, Texas, California, and Hawaii. Annexation would insure Central America against (external) communist subversion and would free the people from (relative) despotic abuse.

The major obstacle within Central America to annexation, beyond strident nationalism, would be the reluctance of the generals and the aristocracy to exchange their authoritarian fiefdoms for a free democratic state government.

The people of Central America would also be less reluctant to accept absorption into the United States if we were to give a concrete demonstration of our belief in political equality. Therefore, prior to any consideration of annexation, statehood should be proffered to Guam and Puerto Rico. For too long, the Puerto Ricans and Guamanians have been disenfranchised Americans. Once done, we can invite the seven states of Central America into our republic with a clear conscience.

update 180108: While I remain an enthusiastic expansionist, and proponent of Puerto Rican Statehood, I also have plenty of sympathy for secessionists. Seven billion plus sovereign entities by latest reckoning… But, as long as a confederation remains a voluntary union, I’m in!

“Off with its head” (Wednesday, 20 October 1982, GT)

It is inevitable, during an election year, to hear the contenders argue about how best to reduce spending and save tax dollars. Republicans claim that Democrats are too fastidious with their scalpels, and Democrats charge that Republicans are too reckless with their cleavers.

They are both right as they insist that the other is using the wrong instrument. To cut bureaucratic fat you need neither a scalpel nor a cleaver, but a guillotine.

“Concern irrelevant” (Tuesday, 14 December 1982, GT)

“Those who deal and sell drugs (like beer, coffee, tobacco, and whiskey), and other hard drugs, care not for the person they sell to. Their only aim is to make easy money for themselves.”

Sound familiar? It should; with only a change of specific drugs, it is the same irrelevant statement as that made by your correspondent DM in your December 9 edition.

Does it really matter if a merchant cares about his customers? It may to some, but as for me, when I patronize Snarfway, BulkMart, or my friendly neighborhood marijuana connection, all I want is high quality merchandise at a competitive price. Genuine personal concern is not for sale at any price.

DM invokes “lack [of] respect for the law” as an indictment of the entrepreneur’s character. When the law violates our basic human rights to life, liberty, property, privacy, and the pursuit of happiness, then the law is unworthy of respect. As Frederic Bastiat taught us in 1850, the safest way to make sure that the laws are respected is to make them respectable.

There is no moral requirement for us to obey unrespectable laws. I would caution everyone against indiscrete disobedience, the state is more heavily armed than we are, and there are still plenty of zealous informers who would sell out your liberty.

“Valiant filibuster fails” (Monday, 27 December 1982, GT)

I never thought I’d find myself in bed with the North Carolina Senators  Jesse Helms or John East, but politics is passing strange.

Like Mark Hatfield’s valiant stand against Jimmy Carter’s draft registration, Helms’ and East’s ferocious filibuster to protect the innocent from an omnivorous federal government proved futile, and the gasoline tax hike, in the midst of recession, has been inflicted upon the hapless American consumer.

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Corvallis Gazette-Times, Spring/Summer 1982

“Two of a kind” (Thursday, 17 June 1982, GT)

As Israel expends more and more American hardware in southern Lebanon and kills more and more civilians, the differences between Menachem (“King David Hotel”) Begin and Yassir (“That’s My Baby”) Arafat become less and less clear.

update 171228: As of 1994, the differences continue to fade, as Arafat is awarded his own Nobel “Peace” prize, joining such kill-crazed corpse-mongers as Begin himself, Anwar Sadat, Teddy Roosevelt, and presaging such similar monsters as Al Gore and Barage O’Bombers (Barrack Hussein Walker Bush 44)

“Invest in space” (Monday, 16 August 1982, GT; also edited by Salem Statesman-Journal, 10/14)

The Earth is finite. Man’s aspirations, however, are infinite.

Once we’ve exhausted the Earth, as one of these centuries we must, what then? Shall our teeming descendants return to the muscle and steam technologies of the 19th century, plowing the fields with the help of a mule and traveling by wood-burning locomotive? Shall they forsake the alloys, drugs, and instruments that cushion, illuminate, and even extended our lives? Shall they starve?

As our horizons draw closer to us, we become less safe, less wealthy, and less free. Because our planet is limited and Man’s potential for growth and acquisition is limitless, we must embrace technology. I believe that our physical salvation lies in the exploration and exploitation of our extra-terrestrial frontier.

In light of the foregone, the government’s abandonment of America’s space program seems criminal. What is worse, the abuse and bungling of past administrations and congresses, Republican and Democrat, have so crippled the economy as to render it almost impossible for the private sector to move into space without big bureaucracy’s consent [government’s guidance].

Therefore, I am proposing that all contributions to space research, public or private, be fully tax creditable. This would allow space enthusiasts (that is, survival enthusiasts) to direct their exorbitant tax bills where they may do the most good. Furthermore, I propose that all investments (including loans and the purchasing of stock) in any space-faring enterprise be deducted from a person’s taxable income.

If such a law were to pass within the next year I believe that free enterprise would take us to the moon, to stay, before this century is out.

update 171227: Clearly America missed my deadline, and probably only partly because of not following my advice.
I do remain a space nut, but am now less sanguine about the prospects of tax-credit fueled “free enterprise”. Not that I’ve any quarrels with ACTUAL free enterprise, I’m just not as much the naive congressional candidate running on a platform of ill considered feel good nostrums, Hard Money, and a Secure Frontier. Hey! That’s still mostly my platform! However, I now see “Tax Accountants and IRS Auditors Full Employment Acts” in most prospective tax-credit schemes. I lean now towards more wide scale tax cuts and deregulation and letting an unimpeded market present us with its customary wonders.
And Hard Money and a Secure Frontier!

update 211110:  I’ve since abandoned such weak and weaselly halfway measures as tax credits.  I now advocate for consigning taxation itself to history’s dustbin of embarrassing superstitions.  And clearly, we (homo sapiens) have yet to return to the moon, though there does exist cause for optimism.  Kudos therefore to the Billionaires’ Boys Club and their very impressive “dick measuring contests” of late, from which most notably Wally Funk and William Shatner have benefitted.  And so have I, and Trekkies across the globe, even if we haven’t joined them yet in corpus.  Excelsior!

“Answers to questions” (Wednesday, 8 September 1982)

On September 3, correspondent MD asked:  “Is the congressional franking privilege being used (by Rep Denny Smith) an attempt to convince voters that he is the incumbent in the new 5th District, which has no incumbent?” Probably not. I doubt that he thinks we’re that gullible. He’s just taking advantage of the privilege that the Congress has granted itself to promote its members at our expense.

“Does Smith’s opponent get to mail campaign literature to us at taxpayer’s expense?” Certainly not. The Repucrats and Demoblicans have enough trouble defending their bankrupt programs and unprincipled positions without providing the opposition with free ammunition. Beside which, even if government loot were offered to run my campaign, I could not accept it. Neither I nor Mr Smith has a right to extort money from people in order to promote a cause with which they may differ. As a Libertarian I can only accept voluntary donations.

“Who is Smith’s opponent? What does that opposition stand for?” I am the Libertarian candidate opposing Smith, and I believe that no one, including the government, has the right to initiate aggression against anyone else for any purpose. I believe that the productive are fully entitled to the fruits of their own labors, that no American tax victims should be obliged to support foreign dictators, and that no American GI should die in another useless campaign to make war safe for big business and big government.

update 171227: I’ve since reconsidered my position with regard to accepting “tainted” funds. If I were running for office today and “matching funds” were available from the public trough, I would probably accept them, even as I recognized the possible political disadvantage engendered by a “principled libertarian” accepting plunder funding. I would face the charges head on. I would accept tax pelf from Negan, and if offered, I would accept cash from David Duke, Harvey Weinstein, the Ku Klux Klan, or even the Southern Poverty Law Center.

I would proudly follow the examples of the Righteous Rons (Reagan and Paul). With regard to David Duke, Mr Reagan stated succinctly that just because Duke endorsed him didn’t necessarily mean that he endorsed Duke. Dr Paul explained more fully (not quoting, exactly) to the effect that, “[You say that these are bad people, and because of that you think I should give them their money back? Why? If they’re really bad people, as you say, they’re just going to do bad things with the money. I’m going to spread the message of liberty with it. What’s better than that?]”

So, like the Righteous Rons, I would accept all voluntary contributions, just as I walk on the sidewalk and drive on the streets, even though I know that they’re built with stolen money. Also, I encourage all to accept food stamps, AFDC, Social(ist in)Security, or any other goodies that Negan might be handing out (if you can stomach the process). No matter that we may not be able to directly recompense the original tax victims, at least we’re getting the loot out of the hands of the bandits who took it.

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Oregon State University Barometer, 1982

“Intrusion” (Thursday, 28 January)

Once again the Barometer has swallowed the statist line and endorsed yet another intrusion into Oregonians’ personal lives. In this instance managing editor RR applauds the legislature’s proposed “one-time” five per cent income tax surcharge. Of course, he applauds with the proviso that the state realize that this is a one time good deal and that the government get its act together for the future.

What RR fails to realize is the historical fact that any temporary acquiescence on the part of the people is always interpreted by the state as permission to exploit in perpetuity. The fact of the matter is that the current “budget crisis” is a cruel and cowardly hoax. There would be a quarter of a billion dollar deficit only if spending were accelerated as planned. Our meek acceptance of “necessary” tax hikes only invites escalated deprivations by our beneficent civil masters.

“Waste” (Monday, 8 February)

On January 30, Senator Mark Hatfield said government waste was too narrowly defined. Too often we worry about waste, fraud, and abuse (WFA) within a program, but fail to question the usefulness of the program itself. The Drug Enforcement Agency comes immediately to mind. The DEA epitomizes WFA; it wastes tax funds to defraud the public into believing it is necessary to abuse that large minority who use drugs (other than caffeine, alcohol, or nicotine) for recreational purposes.  Other wasteful, fraudulent, and abusive government activities might include the EPA, INS, ICC, FCC, and all extra-national military aid and activity.

“Obscene effort” (Friday, 26 February)

It’s preposterous that an administration that was swept into office on the basis of getting government off our backs plans to prosecute those young American men for the “crime” of noncompliance with mandatory registration for selective slavery.  The “Justice” Department intends to pour our taxes down a rat hole in an obscene effort to disrupt the lives of as many as they can nail.  Since our Constitution clearly prohibits slavery or involuntary servitude except as punishment for crime, it must be a crime in America to be young and male.

“Property rights” (Monday, 1 November)

It’s not at all surprising that “larger economic interests” would oppose the Measure; they’ve already made it through the land-use maze and are now in the catbird seat.  Just as cabbies and Teamsters don’t want their respective preserves deregulated, “them that’s got” don’t want “them that’s not” to have too easy an access to the market.

All regulations of the economy (whether that be land use or petroleum distribution) are purported to be, when they are first proposed, for the protection of the “little guy” or for some other presumably desirable social purpose.

In fact, the history of economic regulation (professional licensure, intracity transport, dairy price supports) shows that the regulation actually protect the few from competition and cost society in higher prices and lost opportunity.

 

 

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Corvallis Gazette-Times, winter 1982

“End draft sign-up” (Tuesday, 12 January 1982)

Aspiring Generalissimo Secretary of State Alexander Haig fears that if Mr Reagan puts the kibosh on the draft we would be sending a “message of weakness” to the Soviet Union. Haig is absolutely wrong. An American rejection of involuntary servitude would send a clear message to the world.

Foremost, it would be a message of confidence in the traditions that Americans are supposed to embrace: freedom of choice, freedom of association, and freedom to live our lives. It would be a message of the strength of our convictions, and a sign of the strength of our national character, to state that a free America will never send slave troops to foreign misadventures in Vietnam or Afghanistan or El Salvador.

I have two young sons, and while they are not yet of draft age, as long as it is considered “natural” and “proper” for the government to do such things to our young men, there may very well come a time when they will be faced with a choice of induction, imprisonment, or emigration.  For now I can only wish that Mr Reagan had stood firmly by his pledge to let draft registration die the whimpering death that it deserved.

update 171227: Thirty-five years on, my sons are approaching middle age and are statutorily safe, but my grandson (and, if the Axis of Lefties and Neocons gets its way, my granddaughter) may yet be exposed to potential induction. Also, Leviathan has indeed finally ventured out to squat over “The Graveyard of Empires.”  Imperium delenda est!

 

“Inadequate defense” (Tuesday, 2 February 1982)

While otherwise masquerading as a penny-pinching president, Ronald Reagan has proposed a rearmament program with a price tag of thirteen hundred gigabucks ($1.3 trillion). The Reagan plan is wasteful, dangerous, and perhaps worst of all, inadequate.

To assume that threatening millions of civilians will deter a foreign power from striking first is to ignore the historical evidence that irrational and bloodthirsty governments have formed around irrational and bloodthirsty men (Abraham Lenin, Woodrow Stalin, Benito Delano Rooselini ). If such men were to rise to power in the USA or the USSR again, then the Russian and American people would have great and legitimate cause to fear.

The only rational defense against such a contingency is the barrier provided by an anti-ballistic missile system. The US abandoned its ABM program under the false premise that Mutually Assured Destruction provides a sufficient psychological barrier. This assumes that men are sane. The Soviets, meanwhile, have since improved their ABM capability.
Realistically, the only policy we can pursue is one of rejection of our role of world policeman, and unilateral rearmament.

If we are genuinely concerned about national security, we must:
— Deploy the ABM at once.
— Return the bill (about 50% of our “national defense” budget) for defending Western Europe and Japan to the Europeans and Japanese.
— Repudiate SALT and desist further capitulation to the Soviet Union.
— Remove all economic sanctions and lift trade restrictions from private and corporate enterprises, but let them insure their own risks.
— Kill the MX, B-1, Stealth bomber…

update 171227: Like most of the rest of The West, I overestimated the Soviet Union’s strength and longevity. In retrospect I guess I was a little too modest in my advocacy to cut US “defense” spending. On the other hand, efforts to “keep up with the Amerikanskis” may have contributed greatly to the final Soviet disintegration. We’re not allowed to conduct controlled experiments with history, so we can’t be sure.

 

“Opportunity and freedom” (Thursday, 18 February 1982)

Correspondent DI, in his February 4th letter (“Growth limits freedom”), has mistaken opportunity for freedom and privileges for rights.

To reconstruct his scenario of the lone pioneer, when the first settler reaches an uninhabited area he has the opportunity to exploit the natural domain to the full extent of his talents. When others settle in the neighborhood they recognize, through peaceful negotiation, the rights of the first settler to the property that he has developed. They too have a (diminished) opportunity to develop the free natural domain; it is their conditional privilege of having arrived sooner than others. They have no right, however, to invade previously claimed territory. The first settler’s opportunities are also diminished. He cannot now expand his territory as widely as he had once hoped, but he retains the right to conduct himself and his already established property as he sees fit.

Perhaps a simpler analogy will clarify the matter. We are all free to find gold nuggets in the wilderness, but only a few of us will have the good fortune to get to them first. Once found, they may be kept, spent, or given away as the finder chooses. The owner of property has the sole right to decide its fate.

The state Land Conservation and Development Commission and its cheerleaders, the 1000 Foes of Oregonians, seek not to regulate the acquisition of wealth from unclaimed property, but to restrict the peaceful, private pursuits of rightful property owners. The land is already claimed and lawfully held by the people. If a landowner chooses to subdivide and sell his property, it is his right. It is his property. He seeks not to trespass on others’ rights or freedom, he only asks that his be respected.

DI is quite correct if he suggests that overpopulation requires us to be more careful of our neighbors’ rights. Overpopulation deprives us of certain opportunities, but only aggression can deprive us of our freedom.

 

 

 

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Corvallis Gazette-Times, 1981

“Irony” (Thursday, 18 June 1981)

Oh the delicious irony, to see the stories, “Officials ponder packed prison problem” and “Marijuana bust nets 4” on the same page of your June 16 edition. It is either a too appropriate accident, or someone on your staff shares my sense of the absurd.

While I don’t know exactly how many inmates in our state penal facilities are victims of Oregon’s victimless-crime laws, it does seem to me that releasing them would go a long way toward relieving our current calaboose congestion.

“Impractical” (Saturday, 8 August 1981)

Correspondent MB’s suggestion of August 1st that [as a dissuasive measure] all of us who support the freedom of abortion personally participate is impractical logistically, professionally, and ideologically.

The logistical considerations are perhaps the most compelling. As all of us who advocate the execution of capital offenders could not feasibly take part in that act, all pro-choice proponents could not practically participate in preempting pregnancies; there are just too many of us per clinic. Assuming, of course, that we would be permitted to assist. Very few of us are qualified to practice medicine.

Even so, it would be inequitable. I, for one, would resent it, because I, like many who are pro-choice , am also anti-abortion. Being pro-choice, I choose not to participate, I choose not to support, and I choose not to interfere with those who choose otherwise.

(A fairly good Darwinian argument, with which I imagine MB would take issue, can be made to support the pro-choice position: those who abort not only proliferate less than those who do not, but also expose themselves to the statistical mortality that all surgery entails. Ultimately, natural selection will put the abortionist out of business.)

update 180101: Describing myself for decades as both pro-choice and pro-life has been occasionally thorny, as zealots on either side of the issue will assail us for our lack of commitment or conviction.

My commitment is to life, liberty, and the pursuit of property.

My convictions are these. The rights of the host supercede the interests of the parasite. An organism that feeds off of another acts as a parasite. An “acting parasite” that confers some sort of benefit to the host (joy, hope, photosynthesis?) is considered to be in a symbiotic relationship. In the matter of pregnancy, only the host is qualified to distinguish between parasite and symbiote. (On a personal note, I remain grateful to both Busy Body and Drama Queen that they considered my own beloved spawn to be symbiotes rather than parasites.)

Here are some more facts. There is no such thing as a risk free medical procedure, and there is no such thing as a risk free physical condition. History teaches us that pregnancy kills women and abortion kills women. To the extent that most pregnant women are most of the time in their “right minds” they are the only parties qualified to select from risky options.

“Thrilled” (Thursday, 10 September 1981)

Concerning the dilemma of Duke University:

I should think the administration, faculty, collective alumni and student body would be thrilled at the prospect of a presidential library on their campus. Richard Nixon is, after all, a national hero; he’s done more than any other figure in recent history to revive that great American tradition of distrusting government.

update 180102: Not having mentioned his having ended the draft, Tricky continues to figure large in my life. Compliments of Drama Queen, a favorite cat, Milli Kalikimaka, ended up with his middle name.

“Devalued” (Tuesday, 20 October 1981)

Well, there goes another fantasy [shot to hell]. I had thought that I would write to the Treasury Department (or the Director of the Mint, or whomever is in charge of such things) and suggest that, to commemorate the centennial of the Statue of Liberty, the image of Ms Liberty be struck upon the bronze cent, beginning in 1984, the actual date of her centenary. Now, however, the big news (numismatically speaking) is that our copper penny is soon to be devalued (the same dirty trick they pulled with our dimes, quarters, and half dollars in 1965). It would be a miserable mockery now, to imprint the image of that great bronze monument on a copper-plated coin.

On the other hand, it just might be sadly appropriate. In 1884, when the people of France presented the Statue of Liberty to the United States, it was a vivid, graphic symbol of what America represented to the world community. Freedom of expression, freedom of opportunity, and unlimited freedom of admission. The inscription at the base of the statue admirably embodies this philosophy.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore… I lift my lamp by the golden door.”

Today, official American policy no longer permits unlimited immigration; the sacred symbology of the statue has itself been devalued.

update 180104: editor TM would exercise his prerogative and remove a bit of my prose now and then. [I restore from memory.] I thank Emma Lazarus for her contribution, and apologize for my clumsy edits.

I remain an open borders kind of guy, and think that a border wall is a bad idea whose time has come. I do recognize that open borders plus a massive plunder funded welfare magnet equals the EU. I don’t endorse spending more stolen money on a Great Big Beautiful Wall, I endorse spending less stolen money on The MIC and The Privileged Poor.

update 190911: I recently sent this file to correspondent Al Assassid, citing my enduring gratitude for editorial’s forbearance She responded:
“Chances are editor TM placed Packed Prison Problem next to Bust Nets 4. He was a fan of humor, both obvious and subtle. Not always one to exert forbearance, I‘m glad he practiced it on you.”

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Singled Down

All I know of love is how to live without it…
All the years of useless search have finally reached an end.
Loneliness and empty days will be my only friend.
From this day love is forgotten I’ll go on as best I can.
John Bettis & Richard Carpenter, 1972

When you see through love’s illusions, there lies the danger,
and your perfect lover just looks like a perfect fool.
So you go running off in search of a perfect stranger,
and your loneliness seems to spring from your life,
like a fountain from a pool.
Jackson Browne, 1974

“Because I feel like a big mistake that you managed to not quite make.”
“You took something that felt so good and crushed it because you could.”

No life’s without uncertainty
We both know how hard this love can be
It’s just this hurting inside of me that threw it down.
(2010)

My reward is in the knowing that I held it in my hands for a little while.
(2016)

Em Cee Squared

Dedicated, with enduring affection, to:
Ffikus Pydaxel, Diva Dearest, and Early Riser


14 February 2004 — “Other Sweetie,
I’m afraid things are going to be tough for us for a while, but I think we can hold on to each other if we try really hard. I love you. Now and always, your Sugar“

1 October 2022
Oh, it WAS tough. Much tougher than necessary. Tough for the sake of the injury itself, just because the bitterness and resentment of some were insufficiently celebrated. And I tried. I tried really really hard. I tried so hard to be false and pleasant and superficial and pointless, but it was never enough. The depths of my sincere objections apparently were just too much to tolerate. I nearly broke me in the attempt, and in the end, finally, it was just another case of sprinting to miss the bus.

12 July 2023
I’m beginning to have my doubts about “always.”
It’s not like they can throw me out much farther, and yet I still “act like this.” It’s possible I was NOT deliberating manipulating their emotions. It could be that they just got fed up with my continuing to not be the me they imagined, but remained the me I’d always claimed to be instead.

210114 — Father of the Whom?  
It has been suggested that I suffer from a persecution complex, and that the exclusions or ejections from fruitful relationships are imaginary.  AND that I have brought them upon myself.  Well then, which is it?  If there were actually something for me to bring upon myself, wouldn’t it be real?
I’m generally willing to concede the possibility, and sometimes even the likelihood, that I am the author of most of my troubles.  I am emotionally retarded and so can be a rather difficult case for people who might otherwise care about me.  In fact, I’ve spent much of the past week or so exploring these debilities, in a series of essays that I’ve reproduced from fragmented notes, and augmented, and posted (now under the umbrella title of “Counterpoint Confessional.”)  Unfortunately, the posting of these genuine suspicions have been read (again) as assaults on others rather than as an exposure and exploration of my own failures.  Just as no good deeds seem to go unpunished, few confessions escape being read as denials.
It is not imaginary (unless I am more delusional than had been suspected) that I have been ejected from two marriages, and recently, from a probable third – well not quite “marriage” – but close enough to hurt as much. The aggrieved are real people and they seem to have had their fill of me. I also recognize that the common factor in all three of these failures is me.
The following is also not imaginary.
Years ago, I attended my son’s wedding.  It was a gay festive affair AND a sobering revelation.  The world is free to review the photographic evidence.  During and before the event there were many portraits staged to commemorate both the day and the raveling relationships.  Many of course of the happy couple, the bride and her entourage, the groom and his, the proud and beaming mothers of the pair, the newlywed bride’s dance with her Daddy, and… Well, that’s about it. Oh, there were also plenty of candid shots at the reception, with eyes half closed or mouths half open, or eating or drinking or dancing and the rest of the revelry.

Okeh, THAT’s about it.  Other than an apparently unfortunate and unmistakable physical resemblance of a couple of fellas in the crowd, there was no affirmative evidence that the groom’s nativity was other than parthenogenic.

update 210202: It was many things, but in the end,
mainly, it was Wuhan Flu™ and Medicare.
(With a disgraceful lack of properly bleating compliance.)
update 210713 (201103 redux): And voting! Voting was bad. Well, voting in person. Who knows how many times I killed them by standing in that line, with my mouth shut, outside, in that anti-viral sunshine? Voting (and then telling the truth about it) was clearly a mistake.

update 210307, Reflections of the “Discussion”: Once the truth was revealed (again) that I was always telling the truth (again), what I remember most is the look of horror, disgust, and revulsion.
When I hear that, “It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends,” it tells me I have no hope. I had no intention of backing away at all, so SHE may back away as much or as little as she needs to. Standing still may look like retreat, to those retreating, just like falling slower looks like flying upwards to those who are falling faster.

update 210308, I am the Microbial Roach Motel:
My vigorous immune system doesn’t get the respect it deserves. I guess it’s bad enough that I’m not getting sick and infecting other people, but worse yet, I also tend to destroy most of the pathogens that breach my barrier. Out in the daylight, if a virally laden droplet were to land on my shoulder, they would die of dehydration or UV poisoning in a matter of minutes. If it landed on the wet welcoming membrane of my eye, or if I sucked it up my nostril, eager leucocytes and attentive antibodies would destroy them in a matter of seconds.

update 210325 — Rescinded:
“You’re posting that anti-mask stuff again.”
“It isn’t ‘anti-mask;’ you’re misreading into it.”
“I don’t know why you have to… forget it. The invitation is rescinded!“
210403 additional reflections on rescission
On the other hand, maybe it was only Medicare, as the virus itself has now been eliminated from the complaint.
So it isn’t Wuhan Flu™ that’s sickening them. It’s all me.

update 210408 — Detached:
So I saw Kittens at GrubCo™ yesterday and disclosed maybe more than Bud and Sugar may think prudent, but I feel that if I stay fully detached, like a delicate bloom from the green stalk, I will wither and die.

update 210411 — Cicisbeo no mo‘?
It isn’t Italian, nor any secret language. It is actually English, albeit a little archaic (“And eat it, too”). Still, it shows no sign of renewal, so it may as well be from a dead tongue.

April First, Abandon that hope.
It wasn’t the First. Weeks later, it occurred to me that the hammer dropped about the first of the month and maybe I was being April Fooled. Well, this doesn’t mean I’m NOT a fool, but in fact, it was March 25th, not April 1st. So, it’s still no joke. When she says we’re quits, we’re quits!

Enrollment of Distinction, April Nineteenth
This is too too rich, too too apt, too too funny, and too too risky. I would like to give Klint proper credit for inspiring the christening of the latest member of my Rogues’ Gallery of Former Arch-Nemeses. I put a great deal of thought and care into selecting those loving sobriquets, but when presented with perfection, how dast I amend? Henceforward shall The Sweetie Formerly Known as Sugar be known as Ffikus Pydaxel.

Still Rescinded, May Fifteenth
A child who pulls the wings off butterflies is heart-broken to realize that they can no longer fly. Just because he’s the source his own heartbreak doesn’t make it any less painful. I find it both sad and amusing that parties who eagerly seized offense at exaggeration, stereotypes, and parody are now mourning the consequences. 

211030 — Rudderless, Hopeless, Pointless, and Friendless?
I don’t actually have a paddle. Or a canoe. Or a map. Or a lake. Or any idea of where I should be going. But I am confident that once I’ve dragged myself out of the water, help and advice will abound. (They’ll be telling what I should have done, but they won’t lend me the keys to their time machines so I can.)

211125 – Conflicting Criteria?
Klint once told me that Ojuxit “can’t take care of everybody,” and I understand that. There is only the one of each of us, and we all have our limits. But I never asked for care, though I offered it plenty. It has been confirmed that the future I saw of tending to the infirm and the frail and the failing into their advanced years, helping them up and down the steps, or into and out of the bath, was not to be. Because of my vigorous good health and high tolerance for discomfort, I guess I’m just a little too low maintenance to qualify. I’m not sure this makes any sense, but I’m not inventing it either.

221003 — On Squandering Our Irreplaceable Time
I often wonder how much richer, sweeter, and more productive our lives together might have been if we had also devoted the time that SHE spent raising issues, WE spent discussing them, and I spent recovering from them. It often seemed interminable as, frequently, she would raise new issues before I’d recovered from the previous episode. Sometimes the issue was my “not getting over it” (because everybody recovers at the same rate, I suppose). Talk about your positive feedback loops! Was there no getting better allowed?
(Who’s “she?” Go ahead, pick a former arch nemesis, any one at all!)

(“IKYR Anyway, even if only metaphorically”)


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Counterpoint Confessional

9 January 1986 — Thirty-Three and a Third                                   

It gets pretty cold up here in the loft, but not as cold as in the house.  Lucretia MacEvil doesn’t seem to mind.  She’s on my lap no matter where she finds it, as long as I’m not smoking one of those awful brown cigarettes.  When she sees me spark up, she will frecuently come join me.  Unless she smells tobacco.  Then she splits.  Right now I’m smoking green and she’s settled comfortably under my notebook.  So, it could be colder.  At least I get a little animal contact to satisfy that frustrated inner pack critter.

Today was supposed to be a big deal.  I’d been pointing it out for a couple of years, so it wasn’t intended to be a surprise.  I’m not a fan of birthdays, in particular, nor of holidays in general.  I like to be happy when I’m happy.  Smiling on cue doesn’t work for me.  Off stage, anyway.  I’ll put on Christmas music in July if I feel like it, but I am not apt to take notice of “normal” birthdays or holidays.

Oh, I do believe in indulging children.  Of course!  Birthdays are an extra big deal to small children, and I hope to share these milestones with my sons for many years to come.  They are less of a big deal for older people, and for some, they are an actual nuisance of a painful reminder.  For me they are no big deal, and I will take them or leave them, but for others, well…  In general, unless a birthday ends in a zero or signals some other threshold, like voting or drinking, I would prefer to pass on them altogether.

So, as I said, birthdays ending in zeroes are cool (as they demark the decades, I suppose, although they don’t, really, but they look like they do), but even cooler would be the whole fractions of a century.  Five, ten, and twenty years are all integer fractions, and so is twenty-five, and so is thirty-three years and four months.

I try to make myself understood before commitments are made or misunderstandings are embraced, and my thoughts about birthdays had been shared and discussed since long before the birth of the boys.  There shouldn’t have been any surprises or disappointments based on that.  So on the day of Early Riser‘s thirty-third, when it had become clear that there were no gifts or cards or banners, the question was raised and my response was, “Just as I said.  The big blowout’s in January on your Thirty-Three and a Third.”

Well, that has made for a very cold autumn in this house, and an even colder winter.  Lucy and I got a little peace while Early Riser took the Young Lethargy League away to Grandmama’s over Christmas break again, and when they returned, I got hugs from the boys and more chill from Mama.  (She also got a fresh shot of cat urine in her shoe again.  She and Lucy seem to have other issues as well.)  I have tried to revive my big “birthday” plans over the last week, but have been blocked and rebuffed.  “Forget it.  It’s not going to work.  You already ruined my birthday.”

Of course, I could have assumed she was LYING and forged ahead with gathering our friends to celebrate her first third of a century anyway.  But our relationship was supposed to have been founded on honesty.  I may not like her all the time, but I still trust her.  She is no liar.  If she says “No” the answer is “No.”  The mother of my sons, my workmate and (alleged) bedmate and (presumed) soulmate wants less to do with me, but still looks forward to the legendary engineer’s income.

In the future maybe I should try to treat women more like children.
Telling them the truth doesn’t seem to work.


9 July 1986 — Dads’n’Grads 

Well, that’ll show me!

We see them every year around this time.  The newspapers are filled with advertisements heralding the end of the school year and the celebration of paternity.  “Congrats to Grads” and “Honoring Dads” are a good enough excuse to cut prices on tires and firearms, I suppose.  But I’ve made it a practice in life to not fall for orchestrated joys; I’d rather be happy when I’m happy, and proud when I’m proud, and otherwise not pretend.  If my sons WANT to honor their Dad, I shouldn’t wish to denigrate their desire.  I know that such an event is no more about me than is my birthday.  But when I actually accomplish something, I really don’t mind its being acknowledged.

Beaver Tech has just seen fit to confer degrees in Physics and Mechanical Engineering upon me.  Those are both four-year degrees involving considerable rigor and skull sweat, and they only cost me five years.  I’m hoping that it was a shrewd investment to double my appeal to possible employers at only a hundred and twenty-five percent of the effort.  Such efficiencies should speak well of my qualifications as an engineer, but that remains to be seen.  So far there has been no response from NASA or Boeing or Grumman or Northrup or CH3M or, well, the list goes on.  But the summer is young, and they are no doubt besieged by applicants this time of year.  Fortunately, even though I’ve been graduated, Evanite is willing to extend my “student internship” until the new engineering freshmen show up in the autumn, so I’ve got a little breathing space.

But hey, college was a blast!  Thanks to the GI Bill, I was paid to go to school.  I doubt that I’ll ever find a better job.  But the GI Bill played out after only four years, so for the last I’ve had to find other ways to cover the rent and groceries in addition to going to school.  Now that I’m only working full time, it almost feels like I’m on vacation.  And there’s no hurry.  I’d rather be hired after careful deliberation than too hastily.  Haste often carries the seeds of regret, and I’d rather be hired by someone who is fully aware of what he is getting than believing I’m something I’m not.  The repayment schedule of the few modest loans I took to supplement expenses don’t kick in until later, and they appear to be tractable enough.  I’ve also faced car payments and rent, so I expect I’ll manage.

But anyway, THiS is my season!  Dad AND Grad!  Or so you might think.  I can be pretty foolish sometimes.  Not one word.  NOT ONE WORD!  Not one card.  Not one mention.  Not one cheap classified ad in our local Cow City Chronicle.  Not one knowing wink or nod or gesture.  Not from Early Riser, nor The Young Lethargy League, not from other relatives, nor from friends.  Apparently, when I do something cool and otherwise “noteworthy” it doesn’t count.

update 210107:  Make that mythical engineering income.  Still no word from NASA et al.  Going to college WAS fun, and I have fond memories, but it was probably the worst financial decision of my life.  Since then, Busy Body chucked me out.  Later, Drama Queen chucked me out (and still later died), but not until after gracing me with the most beautiful daughter imaginable.  At present I am “retired” (a euphemism for “fired at a late age”) and eating my savings for a while before tapping tax victims.  No matter how meagre my income, or onerous my commitments, organized criminals (F’eral, statist, or municipal) never failed to help themselves to hefty portions of it.

update 210109: And now it appears that I may have been singled down again. Ffikus Pydaxel (formerly known as “Gurawf“) seems poised now to join the ranks of Lethargy Lad’s Rogues’ Gallery of Former Arch-Nemeses. As “secondary” I lasted thirteen years, twice. Having reset my criteria and accepted a position that was instead tertiary and subordinate, I lasted almost twenty-two years until the awful truth was revealed. At least this time there were no innocent children involved whose lives I could ruin.

7 April 2024 — “Stimo Tahec Yemw” (A Dream of Early Riser)
“We would like you to come to church with us.”
“Uh huh.”
“What would it take?”
“You know what I want.  You’ve known what I want since long before you threw me out the first time.”
“There’s more to marriage than just sex.”
“Sure.  Lots more.  Like church.  And gardening, and washing the dishes.  Everything costs something.”
“My sister would like it too.  She came here long before you came back.  We like the heavy lifting and the lawn care…”
“But you’d like to look respectable to your church friends.”
“Put it like that, then.”
“Okeh.  How ’bout I put it like this?  You want my ass in that pew on Sunday morning?  I want my dick in your mouth.  I’ll put my ass in that pew for a full minute on Sunday for every minute my dick gets to spend in your mouth for the previous week.”
“Church service is usually an hour.”
“That sounds about right.  That’s maybe four proper blow jobs a week.  I know you can, and I know you’re good at it.  You’ve probably also had a little more practice since our divorce, so I’m hoping you’ve even improved.  And even if you’re a little out of practice lately, I’m sure you can pick it up again.  If you want.”
“What about intercourse?”
“Oh, I like that, too.  But you never seemed to.  I remember your complaining a lot that I was hurting you, but you nevertheless seemed to take pride in a cock well sucked.  Okeh, maybe you were faking that, too.  But you were still good at it.”
“But still…”
“You know what?  Maybe I’m not being fair.  Fellatio is skilled labor.  Sitting in church is pretty passive.  How about this?  One minute of cocksucking will buy you two minutes of my sitting in church.  So that’s still three or four blowjobs a week for me, but maybe quicker for you and less wear on your bionic knees.  And I’ll even let you subcontract out half the work to your sister.  If she’s game.  You did say ‘we,’ after all.  Oh hell, I’ll even fuck her if she wants. But anal will cost extra. I find that distasteful, but tolerable if she insists.”

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Reign of Stone, an excerpt from West of ’89, ch XXI: El Diablo Imperialista

Late in the Eocene epoch, forty million years before Man invented language and lies, the earth’s crust cracked under western Oregon and released a sea of magma over the fertile coastal plain. Plumes of gas thrust tons of ash high into the atmosphere and it rained over the plain and enriched the soil, while great cones of cinder and stone rose like sentinels to overlook the land.

As the Miocene epoch began, twenty million years before Man mastered mathematics and mendacity, volcanic activity accelerated and rivers of lava laid down a vast plateau of brittle basalt.

At the beginning of the Pliocene epoch, four million years before Man began to worship women and war, the Juan de Fuca plate, hurtling eastward at four centimeters per year, left the Pacific basin and slammed into the west coast of North America. The relentless pressure from the collision pushed up mounds of earth and folded it under the basaltic plateau. The surface buckled, popped, and pierced the firmament with great splinters of stone.

Long before the Reign of Stone gave way to the Age of Reason, settling mounds of ash and gravel climbed into the sky, to be softened and shaped by rushing wind and running water. Periodically, as the heat and pressure mounted, these slumbering giants tore themselves open and set loose great gouts of lava, ash, and vapor upon the upper world. This constant violence of one plate sliding inexorably under the other turned organic matter under and ground it into pulp while it broke up the layers of basalt and transformed Oregon’s idyllic countryside into a roiling cauldron of muck and rock.

Martin Powell struggled to keep up. His head pounded. His feet hurt. He did not love Jesus. His years of desk duty at the Oregon (nee Idaho) Department of Power had left him unsuited to hiking over the rough terrain at Blind Ridge. Because his reactivation into the Reserves had been sudden and unexpected, he lacked the conditioning of the Regulars, thus vindicating their dim view of the “Sorry Seconds.” The enlistees assigned to him had no trouble keeping up with Harrison Davis and Clayton Mackenzie as they marched over the ridge, but he was impelled to call for regular halts.

As he caught up to the party the Guards were seated near the edge of the bluff overlooking the Spokane River. Mackenzie was hugging the trunk of a great ponderosa pine growing out from the cliff edge. Davis had climbed onto a branch, his legs wrapped tightly around it and his head dangling into open space. “Oh, come on and open your eyes, Mr Mack. This tree is perfect for our rig. It’s held itself here for generations, against both gravity and wind loading. Our puny bodies are not going to break this!”

 

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from the beginning… an excerpt from West of ’89: prologue 1

Pensacola, Franklin Parish, Republic of West Florida
10 December 1810

 “Senor Reuben?”

“Humberto, I said twenty — ” Colonel Kemper looked up at the standing clock and saw that it had indeed been twenty minutes since he’d asked his aide to delay his guests. “I’m sorry, Oom. Another half moment. Help me with these writs.”

“Oui, m’sieur.”

Reuben scrawled and his graying gaunt slave blotted and assembled the documents into a neat stack at the corner of the desk. “Is General Claiborne still waiting outside with the Govern — er — the Senator to be?”

“Yes, senor. With the OTHER new Senator.”

Reuben stood and slapped Humberto on the back. “I wish you were coming with me to Washington City.”

“The spoils of war are yours to command, Senor.”

“Of course, mon ami. But Nathan needs you here. He will be well served by a boy who speaks English, French, Spanish, and Muskogean.”

“I am pleased to hear it, sir. I have served this hacienda twenty years. I confess I have grown to love it, despite a few rather — unpleasant grandees.”

“Grandees no more, amigo. Soon we will all be Americans. Now bring in Mr Madison’s emissary, and have Carlotta fetch us some refreshments.”

Humberto ducked his head and departed, and in came General Claiborne and Senator-elect Skipwith. Claiborne extended his hand. “Good morning Senator. Shall we get on with the formalities?”

Reuben smiled and gripped his hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, General. I’ll wait until Mr Clinton accepts my oath. At present I am well satisfied with Mister.” He offered his hand to Skipwith. “I hope Samuel enjoys life in St Francisville, sir.”

Skipwith smiled. “Your brother seems well disposed to insuring that our just rights will be respected here at home. As for me, the blood which flows in my veins yearns to return, unimpeded, to the heart of Washington.”

Reuben laughed. “And return we shall, sir. Gentlemen, sit.”

Claiborne grunted as he eased himself down. “You missed a bit of a tussle in your legislature, Colonel. Your Volunteers seem unsatisfied with the scraps you’ve thrown them.”

“Bugger the Volunteers. They’ve got their beloved Franklin back. And they’ve got the House Delegation, too. What more do they deserve?”

“Arguably, sir,” said Skipwith, “we owe them our independence.”

“Their arrival at Mobile Bay was timely, but it was my vision, and the valor of my brothers, that drove the Spanish ’crost the Apalachicola.”

A young negrita bearing a tray appeared in the doorway. Reuben rose again. “Please, gentlemen, join me in a toast to the Lone Star Republic, our bonnie new state, and,” he winked at Claiborne, “so that I may properly accept your surrender, General.”