Adaptive Curmudgeon

I never watched much TV. Now I watch less. Same for movies. I don’t know if commercial storytellers suck more (“It’s Cinderella Part IV, with black lesbians!”) or I’ve changed.

I suspect it’s the latter. TV and movies (and most books) dismissed with interesting stories and devolved to the most constrained groupthink possible. I began to see the matrix.

All good stories, whether a fishing tale delivered from a bar stool or a quarter-billion dollar CGI fest, have similarities. (Here we bow toward Joseph Campbell, without bothering to actually read his shit, because who’s got time?) However, similarities can’t be too obvious. When hacks take a story arc and just plain beat the thing to a pulp, the magic fades. It’s no fun anymore.

This is my reaction to the last two hundred (OK it just seems like two hundred) movies about superheroes. Or anything by Disney. Or the avalanche of sequels. Hollywood finances are a sucking chest wound because their job is to tell stories and they neglect the work of making stories.

But I digress. I mostly stopped watching TV when I saw Blake Snyder’s thumbprint on everything. Blake wrote Save the Cat! The Last Book on Screenwriting You’ll Ever Need. Hollywood followed it with the slavish devotion that only sheep can muster. It became inescapable.

It got to the point where I’d start calling out Blake’s “beats” instead of being immersed in the tale. (Just for the record, I didn’t read Blake’s book. It’s on my “to do” list but I’d rather shovel out the chicken coop and I hate shoveling. So I never got around to reading the book.)

Blake’s list is for a three act story and damn near everything you’ve experienced is more or less three acts. Within the three acts are 15 “beats”. There are elaborate “formulae” for how long to spend on each “beat” and there’s a tiny bit of variation. (“Spend more time on ‘Setup’ to linger on the sexy spy’s ass… we paid good money for her.” “There’s too much exposition in ‘Bad Guys Close In’, cut it short and hope people already know why Superman won’t like the Kryptonite milkshake.” You get the point.)

In general, if it came from Hollywood, it has these parts in more or less this order:

1. Opening Image
2. Theme Stated
3. Setup
4. Catalyst
5. Debate
6. Break Into Two
7. B Story
8. Fun and Games
9. Midpoint
10. Bad Guys Close In
11. All is Lost
12. Dark Night of the Soul
13. Break Into Three
14. Finale (Often with sub-parts: Gathering the Team, Executing the Plan, The High Tower Surprise, Dig Deep Down, Execution of New Plan)
15. Final Image

So, I’d be watching TV with Mrs. Curmudgeon and I’d ruin it for her. It would be some generic police / detective drama and I’d call out beats as I recognized them. Like this:

“Those bastards in City Hall are messing up the murder investigation? The plucky underdog detective can only catch the criminal if he defies his bosses direct orders? BREAK INTO TWO!”

Mrs. Curmudgeon would roll her eyes and I’d try to shut up as the second act rolled on. But I couldn’t help myself.

“The DNA evidence clearly implicates the Mayor? MIDPOINT!”

I’d realize I’m a shitty guy to have around while a TV show is playing and try to be better. I failed, every time.

“The crooked lawyer got the DNA evidence thrown out? ALL IS LOST!” It was almost impossible to not see it once you started looking.

It’s usually easier to see the end parts of the arc. Toward the end of the show I’d be ruthless.

“The plucky underdog detective is thinking of having a drink, despite his tragic history of alcoholism? DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL!”

“He’s got a scheme to catch the Mayor bragging about his heroin dealing? EXECUTING THE PLAN!”

The end of the show would be looming and it would be super obvious. I could call ’em like it was closed captions on the screen itself.

“Oh no, the tape recorder battery was dead! But the plucky underdog detective recites the entire discussion from memory? He does this by overcoming his fears caused by a tragic meltdown in his elementary school spelling bee? DIG DEEP DOWN!”

Now you know how much it sucks to be married to me.

Mrs. Curmudgeon has to watch much of her TV with headphones. I try very hard to avoid looking at the screen because sometimes I can pick out beats from just the acting.

There’s a silver lining to this, sometimes modern TV on mute is funny as shit. It’s absolutely batty! Recently I saw something with a guy in a giraffe suit. I assumed it was for toddlers; a modern Captain Kangaroo. Mrs. Curmudgeon assures me it is for adults and involves singing. Go figure.

Also, I’m not immune to the weirdness. I’ll spend an hour watching Roy Underhill make a picture frame and it’s heaven. Mrs. Curmudgeon will spend an hour watching people make cakes and I go into a coma. So there’s that…

ACT TWO!

I wrote all the previous stuff so I can tell you about this part. The “beats” happen in propaganda too. Who knew?

Not long ago I was driving to the feed store. I passed eleventy zillion signs for Trump and three for Biden. Then I bought feed from happy people selling farm goods at a profit to chumps like me. No masks. No bitching about masks. The weather was gorgeous, diesel is cheap, and hunting season is approaching.

Back home I surfed the internet. Everything was the opposite of what I was seeing in the real world. The real world ‘aint half bad. The media world is a dystopian nightmare.

I wasn’t thinking of anything in particular when I blurted out the beat. “ALL IS LOST!”

I swear I could see the beat. It’s messy and spread out over a thousand media streams but it’s there. This was the dark point in the arc; manufactured as needed. Not just for people on the Right but also people on the Left. Everything sucks. We’re fucked. 2020 is unwinnable.

“ALL IS LOST” is a big deal. The story needs it! Rocky can’t come off the mat with the renewed power of awesome until he’s first thumped good and hard. So it is with us.

The specifics were all delivered like it’s real, forever, bad, and inescapable. Trump has COVID and is going to die tomorrow. If you vote, your vote won’t count. If you don’t vote you suck. If we have to count votes, we’ll fuck it up. Peace deals involving Israel are irrelevant. Removing troops from harm’s way isn’t worth discussion. Good employment news is irrelevant. The economy is not recovering. COVID is death. Fewer COVID deaths isn’t good news. Every country is better than ours, in COVID and in everything else. Nobody is happy. We’re all gonna’ die.

They lay it on thick and harsh. “This is the new normal bitches. It’ll never get better!”

This is nothing new. We already know that virtually all media is now propaganda. Anything about which I have personal in-depth knowledge is reported completely erroneously. (See: Gell-Mann amnesia effect.) I’m sure you’ve noticed the same yourself.

But I never really thought about timing of events to produce the arc. I never thought about events (or rather manufactured events) occurring in a specific order. I don’t know why. It seems obvious in retrospect.

So that’s a thing. I’m seeing “beats” in a long arc. You are too. The degree to which we recognize it is up to us. For my part I see it as a refinement on my earlier cruder understandings of propaganda timing (See: October Surprise).

Things move quickly and I type slowly. Beats have timing assigned to them and ALL IS LOST is meant to be short.

Almost immediately, while I was getting my ass in gear to compose this post, the media transitioned to “DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL”. This is where the protagonist (and in turn the viewer) must experience doubt. “I can’t defeat the Dragon / outwit the lawyer / hit the home run. I’m just not good enough! Am I wrong? Have the Gods abandoned me? Will the wolves eat me?”

Sure enough, I experienced that. Maybe not that level of stress but sure… I felt doubt. My PredictIt bets are all valued at shit. The press was dancing in joy that “it’s all over” and I might as well “bend over and take it” (they phrase it slightly nicer). I tried to square this with cheap truck fuel and happy people at the feed store. Was I missing something?

Nah, it’s the story. The story must continue. “DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL” is only a “beat” in the story arc. Soon things looked better.

There was a 90 minute VP Debate and the best the press could do to Pence is joke about a fly? Really? That’s it? If a fly was the star, then Harris didn’t exactly hit it out of the park. Unless Pence disemboweled Harris with a fillet knife they weren’t going to say anything bad about Harris’ performance. So, it’s about a fly. (Lets face it, Pence seems as stiff as a board just in general. You could drop an eel on his head and he’d ignore it.) Around the same time Trump walked out of the hospital (which caused some people to bitch), took a ride in his limo (which caused others to bitch), and scheduled his next rally (which caused more bitching). You know what all that means?

“BREAK INTO THREE!”

Sure as shit, propaganda follows a script. Welcome to the third act! We’re living through a basic sequence of emotive events and it’s being written up, spun, and marketed (possibly subconsciously) as a three act story.

It’s mid-October and the timing couldn’t be better. We dispense with ALL IS LOST and DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL to enter act three of our exciting quasi-fictional year just as snow starts landing in my yard and kids are carving pumpkins.

The pacing is exquisite! If this isn’t a tense political thriller then what is? The distractions all year have been excellent, there have been twists and turns, it’s gone bigger than the stage itself. (Is there any reason why Europeans of Canadians should give a shit about US elections?) Now the story shifts from events to character; and then character to resolution.

The events getting airtime right now are just background. Fluff. So we can take a breather after DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL and embrace the fact that we didn’t crap out 40 minutes into a 60 minute show.

The fluff is funtime crap. We’re not fully vested in these details. They are just there to flesh out the real storyline. The Senate is grilling Amy Coney Barrett like they’re an actual deliberative body; which is cute but nobody believes it. Barrett’s holding up notes she’s taken (a blank piece of paper) and it’s a hoot. That’s not the main story and we all know it’s basically bullshit; but we needed the breathing room. Meanwhile, the press is trying to interview the Pence fly and everyone wants to forget that Biden just announced he’s running for Senate. We’re not deeply invested because it’s not the main story arc. The FINALE is when the whole thing gets resolved.

The FINALE will arrive right on time. Just was it was always going to be. The timing is tight as a drum. Perfect really. November 3rd is the day.

The propaganda story arc is following the “beats”. It’s in the hack mind of “journalists” everywhere. It wound its way (intentionally or not) to a thousand carefully worded posts and transcripts and articles. It doesn’t have to be organized. It’s just happening. Remember, it all started with groupthink.

We bought the ticket, we’re going to experience the show, that’s just how it is. Enjoy the FINALE!

A.C.

Hat tip to The Forty-Five.

It’s my blog and my imagination and I can have my respected elder step out of the forest. So, there he was. His eyes twinkled. He always had a smile. He was so much older than me. Wiser, and a wise ass.

“You look troubled.”

“I watched the debate.”

“That was dumb.”

“I know. Now I’m worried. I’m starting to wonder how many American adults have to stop being adults before…”

“Before what?”

“Before I can’t prepare for Pompeii and I have to prepare for Rome. Hell, what can a guy do about the fall of Rome? That pretty much screwed everyone!”

He smiled, breathing in the forest smells. We both love nature.

“How’s the hunting?” He asked.

“Not bad.” I paused. “Actually, I haven’t seen a grouse… or anything else edible. I was hoping for grouse dinner. I think I’ll be eating pizza.” Now I was smiling too.

“And that’s not bad?”

“Nah, pizza’s OK.”

Just then I saw movement in the underbrush. A grouse? I brought my shotgun up slowly. My elder, there in spirit, watched. Smiling.

It wasn’t a grouse. It was a squirrel. I really wanted a grouse.

“What you want isn’t what’s here. But the squirrel is here.” He said.

It seemed so obvious. Take what the world provides, don’t expect it to provide what you demand. Squirrels taste ok. I drew a bead on the furry little critter. It was behind a bush. I couldn’t get a good shot. I’d have to wait until he was in the clear. The squirrel was working bit by bit toward a path. He was going to cross it.

Partially blocking the path was a big fallen log. It had fallen across the path and someone had cut a foot-wide cookie out of the log and rolled it aside. Wide enough for walking but not for an ATV. That’s the way I’d walked just an hour ago. Just above the log, a big tree limb jutted out into the cleared path. Someone had truncated it with a chainsaw. On the other side of the path was an adjacent limb. A two-foot leap or less. No problem for a squirrel. The ends of both limbs were clear of brush.

“You know what’ll happen next?”

“Yep, he’s going to go up that limb, hop across to the other limb, and then into the brush on the other side of the path. I’ll nail him when he’s on that limb. I’ll have a clear view.”

Just like I expected, the squirrel hopped on the limb. He started scampering into the clear view. I tensed.

Then the little bastard outsmarted me! He dropped to the ground, behind the log. I saw a flash of tail as he zipped across the gap in the log but there was no time to aim, and then he was behind the log again. Damn!

“You don’t know what is going to happen next.”

“Yeah, that little guy was slick.” I clicked the safety on and smiled. That’s hunting for ya. It’s full of surprises.

We both enjoyed the breeze. I watched in case the squirrel came back. He didn’t.

“You were worried about Rome?”

“Yeah, how do you adapt to the total collapse of an entire civilization? I mean I can stay away from Pompeii on the edge of Vesuvius. I can stay away from certain parts of Chicago on a Saturday night. But I can’t stay away from a people who no longer… wish… to be what they’ve been.”

“An age-old conundrum. Two choices and both are unpleasant.”

I swigged some water. The recent frost had killed the mosquitoes. It was a great day to be hunting. “Precisely.”

“It was a pretty ugly thing. The Visigoths burned Rome and the ‘Eternal City’ was no more. Civilization collapsed clear to Brittany. Western Rome was gone.”

“Yeah, it led to the dark ages and…”

Western Rome collapsed. Dredging through my pointy head I remembered that even though Western Rome went tits up, Eastern Rome carried on. It was the Eastern Roman Empire. Then it was called the Byzantine Empire. It held on until the Ottomans. It lasted clear to something like 1453. Depending on how you count, it lasted damn near a thousand years longer than the Roman Empire itself.

People in Rome saw their world end but Constantinople held on. It was in a strategic location. Hard to crush. With some caveats, they kept on being rich and stable; a hub of civilization. They had writing and aqueducts and trade and all that shit.

“There was another option.” It came to me like a revelation.

“You despair because people present situations where no choice works. Don’t let that happen.”

“I got totally rooked into it didn’t I?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out yourself. Then again, the squirrel had two options and figured it out. You only saw one.”

Damn, that’s why he’s a respected elder. Smart as a whip. A long life of experience. He was probably better at shooting grouse too.

“I was.” He read my mind. “But we both know it’s not about grouse. You can buy chicken at the store any time you want.”

“Or pizza.” I grinned.

He grinned too. And then the moment was gone. I was alone in the forest, as I had always been.

I provide the moment to you, for whatever worth it may have. When the press is lying to you and you begin to wonder if Americans can (or even want to) maintain America, here’s what you need to know:

“What you want isn’t what’s here. But the squirrel is here.”

“You don’t know what is going to happen next.”

“You despair because people present situations where no choice works. Don’t let that happen.”

That’s all you need to know. Now go for a hike and look at the pretty trees.

A.C.

The thing about grouse hunting is that I suck at it. See that adult thing? I could imagine or pretend that I’m awesome and always come home with my bag limit of birds. It wouldn’t be true. I don’t limit myself to stuff at which I’m good. I strive to improve. Sometimes that means busting my ass all day to miss a harried shot at a feathered rocket.

Also, I had a respected elder who loved grouse hunting. He’s dead. Every fall I try to make time to grouse hunt in his honor. You go to your church; I’ll go to mine.

A couple miles from the truck, I parked my ass on a fallen log and rested. I wasn’t tired from the hike. I’m tired from 2020. I was still fretting over the debate. Slowly digesting the idea that a big selling point on one side was the option to renounce personal responsibility. To be free of the cares of the world by pretending a politician is a God? It worries me. It worries me because it’s not far from taking root.

Nature is a good place to think. I thought of Pompeii. Pompeii was among the ancient Roman Republic’s richest cities. It was damn near a pinnacle of their society. In AD79, Mount Vesuvius erupted and everyone died; leaving behind famously well-preserved archaeological artifacts. The thing is, Romans weren’t idiots. They knew what volcanoes are. They lived near one anyway. The view of the Mediterranean was gorgeous; much like the Pacific as viewed from certain rich and pretty parts of California.

If you were in Rome at the time and had a solid suspicion of volcanoes, the solution was simple, don’t live in Pompeii. You didn’t need to know the eruption was going to come exactly on a certain date in AD 79. You just had to know it was a fucking volcano.

Naples Italy has a million residents, it’s about 13 miles from the base of the mountain. Yes, that mountain. It looks like a gorgeous city. Never been there. I ought to visit.

So, there’s the Pompeii risk. You can live below a damn, on the side of a volcano, near a tidal wave zone, whatever. Odds are you’ll be fine. If not, it’ll be quick.

I’m pretty cool with localized risk, particularly of the natural sort. It’s a personal choice. Want to live in a trailer park in tornado alley; that’s your call. Heck, I live where the blizzards will freeze your balls off. You place your bets and you take your chances. Anyway, I’d feel safer on the hills of Mount Vesuvius than certain areas in Chicago… and, statistically, this is wise.

Pompeii AD79 doesn’t scare me. But what about Rome in the fourth century?

A flood or a blizzard or a volcano is simply part of the earth upon which we live. With human risks it’s harder to plan. Things can get sketchy fast and people are prone to panic. If I can decide to not be there that’s what’ll happen. If Chicago, or Detroit, or Oakland, or Baltimore fucks itself to death, I’ll be somewhere else. The problem is when those places of instability multiply and expand. A volcano took out a city, people problems took out a civilization.

The Roman Republic begat the Roman Empire which begat… nothing. It faded, slow at first, then faster, then poof… gone. It wasn’t just gone on one little hillside where the rich fuckers have summer homes. It was gone everywhere. From the frontier of Britannia to Julius Caesar’s old sock drawer… the whole thing ended. Why? People!

There came a time when Romans could no longer maintain Roman civilization. So, they didn’t. I thought again of the debates with one side talking about real life and the other offering to handle our woes for us so we could be childlike and managed. Romans were badass. Then they weren’t badass. Then they weren’t Romans.

I thought of my respected elder… who is no longer with me. What would he say?

Stay tuned…

Driving to a grouse hunting area, the radio reported Trump had been exposed to COVID. I had no idea.

I shrugged my shoulders. It doesn’t worry me. In the long term, we’re all going to be exposed to COVID. It popped up in China nine months ago and is now in pretty much every nation on earth. We Americans fret over whether Florida has too few restrictions or New York has too many, but the virus ignored our posturing and covered the planet.

As far as I can tell, all we’ve done or not done had almost no impact. Maybe it was delayed here or accelerated there but no more than a few week’s change at most. Hide in the basement or ride your Harley to Sturgis; there is no option that eliminates all risk.

With COVID, there’s no putting the toothpaste back in the tube. It’s here. It’s a done deal. I knew that months ago.

I’m not worried about Trump. Almost certainly they caught it early. Plus, it’s a pretty weak pathogen. COVID is not Leukemia. I figured Trump would get some bed rest with his hot wife, take a few days off work, and then get back at things with hammer and tongs. Meanwhile, the press would shit its pants. Does the press do anything but that? And if I’m wrong? Then, he’ll die. We are all mortal and presidents have died before. That’s why we have a vice president. This isn’t our first rodeo.

I stopped at a gas station. They were sold out of shotgun shells. Yes, I buy shotgun shells at a gas station, as do vast swaths of the nation. Tell that to someone from Manhattan and watch them shiver.

The sold-out shotgun shells mean something. They’re the tip of a mostly hidden iceberg. Same with the toilet paper in what looks like a Mexican brand. It is a time of change.

Then again diesel is dirt cheap. Change isn’t always one way.

Someone was chatting about cancelling Halloween. Meanwhile, they’re already stocking ice fishing gear. Time passes.

I ate a proper American meal of shitty fast food and used the store’s Wi-Fi to check my PredictIt markets. Everything I bought has tanked. Dude’s been sick for like an hour and… Wait, is he sick or just testing positive? Meh, like the press would tell me the truth? I’m in it long term, all of my bets will pan out at $1 or $0. I’ll know in a few weeks.

PredictIt tells me Biden will curbstomp Trump like a boss. It also said Hillary was a guaranteed winner. Who knows? Is anything not propaganda?

Back in the truck, the radio was telling me Biden was leading by eleventy billion percent in every state except a few disgusting flyover trainwrecks that nobody cares about. Meanwhile I was counting Trump signs. Big ones, little ones, HUGE ones, serious ones, silly ones with Trump astride a tank with a flag held like a spear, multiple ones, individual ones, and flags.

Yeah, that’s right… flags. People where I live have flagpoles. I have one too. Probably a third of the flagpoles had a Trump flag beneath the American flag. Never above! People with flagpoles know the protocol. That’s not to mention the trucks with flags. Yes, big trucks with big flags. They’re fairly common. Sometimes you’ll see a flag on a semi.

Sometimes, on a dirt road, I’ll pass a Trump lawn sign in the middle of a corn field or a cow pasture. I’ll see them on small roads that probably have six cars a day. I assume the person putting it up is well aware it’ll hardly be seen.

When I was a kid people tied ribbons on trees in support of the Iran hostages. Those signs in the middle of nowhere are a lot like that.

Trump everywhere. Dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands. Ten times what I saw in 2016. Maye a hundred times what I saw in 2016. There’s a store that sells Trump flags in a nearby small town. It’s open seven days a week. It has longer hours than the grocery store.

Once in a while I’ll see a Biden sign. I’ve never seen a large Biden sign. I assume they make them but I’ve never seen one. I don’t know if they make Biden flags.

I figure the ratio is 100:1 or more… probably closer to 120:1. A landslide of Trump signs of every size and shape scattered all over the land to match every lone, generic, Biden sign.

I passed a boulder that had Trump 2020 and a flag painted on it. They did a good job. Must have spent all day painting that flag. The boulder was in a cow pasture.

Meanwhile the radio is telling me Biden’s got it in the bag. Maybe he does, but I have my doubts. With the press being what it is, I don’t have the slightest idea what’s true beyond what I can see in person.

By the time I get to the grouse field, the radio is talking about the possibility Trump will die from COVID. I’ve been driving maybe 50 miles. It went from “tested positive” to “Pelosi comes right after Pence” in less than an hour!

Sorry media, dude ain’t gonna’ die just so you can have some sort of wish fulfillment. Life isn’t that convenient. Your side is going to have to level up. “Outcompete” is possible. “Win by default” isn’t. At least your dude finally stepped out of his basement. It’s a start. Good luck.

Then I leave the truck. I’m alone, carrying a shotgun, hiking though the forest. How many people have never done these three things?

More to follow…

Nobody in the chattering classes, nor bloggers, nor rantings on social media discussed what I saw in the debates. I saw the juxtaposition between two mutually exclusive ways of being. One player presented accomplishments and challenges as an adult, inherently accepting the burdens and joys and loss and accomplishments such a life entails. The other side proposed a simpler, partially imagined, childlike way of being; almost a regression.

It terrified me.

Could there be a worse fate? To renounce the burdens of self-responsibility is to become a lesser person. I don’t want to be livestock on a vote farm!

Am I alone? Did anyone else sense this? Listen hard to the sales pitch from both sides. See if you pick up on the vibe.

Eventually, I found myself sitting on my tailgate talking to my pigs. I’d gone out to toss them a treat. Mrs. Curmudgeon had made apple pie and the pigs were in ecstasy munching on the peelings.

A word about pigs. They’re awesome. You may be thinking of fat retards in some factory farm but my pigs are healthy and athletic. They’re clever buggers; curious, smart, inquisitive. They have personalities. They’re fairly agreeable. In their youth they were escape artists but I could lead them home like the Pied Piper. They like me.

They should like me. I treat them well. I constructed a pen that’s absolutely massive for just the three of them. I bring them treats. When I call they come running. They enjoy all sorts of food; French fries, burritos, pizza, corn on the cob. Plus, a well-balanced corn and wheat diet that’s probably better than most humans ate until very recently in history. They get plenty of fresh water, a great place to hang out, sometimes I’ll toss in a log so they have something to play with. Yes, they play with toys. They’re smarter than your dog.

They’re fun. They’re tame. They’re good natured. I can pet them. They’re better company than most humans. I raised them from piglets.

In a couple of weeks, I’m going to roll a trailer into their pen. I’ll toss some marshmallows in the trailer. They’ll probably charge right up there and gobble them up. If they’re skittish, I’ll leave the trailer overnight so they get used to it. One way or another they walk on to that trailer. I don’t force them.

Then I’ll drive to a place where a guy puts a bullet in their head and cuts them into pieces.

Yeah. That happens.

I don’t dislike my pigs. I treat them well. But they’re livestock.

“That’s the thing guys.” I was talking aloud. No kidding, the pigs love it when I talk. I think they like how it sounds. They honk and snort right back.

“The debates were just awful. I think there’s a whole lot of folks who just don’t like being adults.” I tossed more apple peelings. I was munching on a slice of fresh apple pie; a paper plate balanced in my lap.

Snort, snort snort…

“I mean, you guys have free food, and a place to stay, and health care. I even get the vitamin supplement for your feed. You guys are pretty fit.”

Snort, snuffle, snort.

“And you’re gonna’ end up in a freezer.”

Snort, snuffle, shuffle…

I sighed and tossed them the last bit of my pie. They loved it. When they begged for more I tossed in a whole apple; which they fought over.

You ever listen to a debate and see some of the appeals being made and then take a good look at livestock? That shit’s dark!

When I was in a sad mood my dog would decide I needed to go for a walk. It was wise counsel. I needed a walk. I tossed some gear in my truck and went grouse hunting. More to come…

The Trump / Biden debates hit me with a sledgehammer. One side talked about all the things he’d done in reality and the other talked about all the things that he’d do better in pure imagination. The COVID discussion had been ugly, but the same juxtaposition happened on every topic.

At the end of ninety minutes I was poleaxed. Sure, Trump is a gold-plated asshole. When is he not? He acted like a like a nuclear tornado in a China shop. But he kept talking about things on earth. “I did this, I did that. I tried this other thing but I couldn’t pull it off. This other thing is great.” I can live with that.

Biden had a whole different vibe. “This thing that is bad is caused by Trump. Everything that is bad is related to Trump. I will make it better… somehow… magically nothing bad will happen when I’m in control. I’ll make windmills turn a profit. Nobody will get sick. I’ll arrange the best medicine for you. I’ll fix your life.”

It started to anger me. It was condescending. This is what Biden sounded like to me:

“Don’t worry your pretty little head. You just sit on the couch in pajamas watching Netflix. The adults will care for you.”

I was shocked. I must be missing something? I listened very carefully but it was a repeat theme. Biden was very clear: “The burdens of the world are unpleasant. Vote for me and you can have childlike innocence again. I’ll take care of everything.”

That’s what got to me! I was watching a legitimate contender to the Presidency tell me that being an adult and making my own choices in life was too hard. I was to vote for him and in exchange he’d do everything for me.

I watched clear through the end, but the undercurrent never changed. That’s the pitch. Being an adult is hard. Paying taxes, getting the oil changed on your car, cleaning up when the cat barfs on the rug, it’s all too much. The President can fix that for you. Also, there’s the specter of deeper fears. You could lose your job, you could run out of money, you could get sick, you could die. Biden would fix all that. If Biden’s in charge you have nothing to fear.

What a nightmare! Being an adult is a pain in the ass but I’m a grown man. I’d have it no other way.

When you are a child, you think like a child and reason like one. The whole point of life is to “level up”. As you get older you start to question things based on the real world. “Can Santa really get to all the houses in one night?” You become an adult. You learn to manage your shit and muddle through the best you can. Ideally you gain a greater, more mature, understanding of the world. You see the world for the glorious, complex, deep, vivid, thing that it really is. “Christmas is a time of fellowship and joy, presents are nice but they’re not the point.”

Biden was specifically and carefully appealing to people old enough to vote but still holding on to a lesser version of… well… a lesser version of themselves. He sells to a desire to be coddled. “Do you want to be managed… like a child, or even a pet? Vote for me. You can regress. Just let me take over. Here’s a juice box.”

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t an accident. It was a pitch that must appeal to a lot of people.

Fuck that! I poured a stiff drink and glowered. The debates had seriously upset me.

There’s more. What? You think I’d leave the story there? Stay tuned.

[Note: Some of my posts go live on autopilot and I’m not right there to manage things. I may not approve your comments within the first few hours. Don’t sweat it. The computer never forgets and I’ll approve as soon as I’m back.]

I tried to follow the debates and it was hard; because they weren’t about real things. Biden was on a roll. He’d prepared for this moment. Talking about COVID he said: “I laid out back in March, exactly what we should be doing. And I laid out again in July, what we should be doing. We should be providing all the protective gear possible. We should be providing the money…”

Hm… PPE gear and money. Um, like masks? Like the ones I can buy on Etsy with a whimsical dinosaur motif? Or ventilators… like we’ve got stacked, new and unused, in warehouses? Or like that big impressive hospital boat that docked in New York City that was never used? Or was it all about money; like the check I cashed a few months ago?

Whenever Biden touched on anything reality based it felt like it was already done. Fretting over stacks of masks and gallons of hand sanitizer seems like something from “flatten the curve” six months ago… which really happened. We. Really. Did. “Flatten”. The. Curve. For the most part, we handled a tragic peak of deaths and we’re around 25% of the deaths at the frightening peak. I think we did pretty well. Unfortunately, we started pecking each other to death during the slow monotonous grind down to whatever will be the eventual baseline.

Biden seemed to say if it we’d done more and harder that would be somehow better. The question is if we’d done what? Would more filled warehouses of unused ventilators be better? Was the check I got useless because it would be better if Biden sent it?

There was a lot of talk about shifting dollars, because that’s what governments do. It seems like a solution looking for a problem. Suppose I have the check sent to protect me from COVID. To whom do I forward it if COVID comes for me? Does the grim reaper take a credit card? Does the ER have a secret “cure this one because he has $600 in his pocket” treatment?

It was a play for sympathy without substance. If I die because I fell off a cliff is that better because it’s not COVID? If Trump is insufficiently sad about COVID what does that say about that big mean doodyhead Biden who didn’t comfort me when my dog died? Where’s my check if I get Legionaries Disease? If my tomatoes plants die in the frost, which politician should I blame?

I don’t want a president who mopes and money’s just money. A virus doesn’t check your bank account. It doesn’t give two shits about politics. All the virus wants to know if your diet includes mostly Twinkies and when’s the last time you hit the gym… and even that might not matter. (Plus, the gym might be shut down.) Mostly the virus looks at your age and rolls the dice. We are all mortal.

Yet there was talk about money. If the only tool you have is a hammer…

I paused the debate to contemplate. Comparing actual action in reality compared to imaginary action and emotional responses is a pet peeve of mine. Adults don’t get to compare real choices with the pretend world. If I take an imaginary trip to 1991 to buy Microsoft stock at a buck a share, I still have nothing to sell at $200 a share now. That won’t change if we get a new president who imagines he, unique among all human beings, had the “solution” to COVID.

Trump tried to bring it back to earth. He tossed out a comparison of his performance, in real life, to a contagion of unknown danger, to Biden’s performance, also in real life, to a contagion of unknown danger. “Well, you didn’t do very well in Swine Flu. H1-N1, you were a disaster. Your own Chief of Staff said you were a disaster.”

Biden wasn’t having it. “14,000 people died, not 200,000.”

I paused the video. Was this lower death rate because Biden cut a better check in 2009? I don’t remember a check. Was it because he carpet bombed us with PPE? I don’t remember extra masks. I do remember a brief scramble for hand sanitizer. The thing I remember most is that people in 2009 didn’t choose to freak out. Schools didn’t shut down, factories ran, and restaurants weren’t closed. I don’t remember any particular response at all. As a voter, I never analyzed whether President Obama was too sad or not sad enough to properly reflect the situation.

Then again, I personally got sick.

Please allow me a side story. Back in 2009, H1N1 hit the news. Being as much a “prepper” then as I am now, I dropped by the pharmacy. There was a drug that was supposedly good for warding off H1N1. (I forget the name now, maybe Floase?) I tried to buy it but couldn’t. I forget the details from 11 years ago but I think one needed an Rx for whatever I was seeking as a H1N1 avoidance measure. You need an Rx and one couldn’t get an Rx without already being sick. How are you to take it before you get sick? Can’t be done. At least I tried.

As “swine flu” spread hither and yon, someone made a vaccine. I went to the pharmacy again. “Can I get the vaccine?” The pharmacist was a real asshole to me; like I was a selfish bastard for even asking. “No, you’re young and healthy, it’s being reserved for people in need.” OK, then. At least I tried.

I went home and in a comically short time got sick. So did some other family members. While I was sick, the media announced that there was an “excess” of vaccine. By golly they’d counted wrong. Everyone, even young healthy people, ought to skedaddle down to the pharmacy and get a shot. Make sure you hurry because you need the shot before you get sick.

Fuckers!

In my humble and personal experience, the government did pretty shitty job with H1N1. I was stopped in my tracks over everything I personally tried to handle or avoid H1N1. Eleven years later, the government went apeshit and shut down the whole fucking world. As far as I can tell, both reactions didn’t accomplish a lot. The virus did what viruses do.

The populace is what changed. We’re weak and jittery. In 2009 we kept the economy in motion. In 2020 we shut down civilization. Half the voters are still hysterical. They’d have us wear masks until we die of old age. The other half is angry and henpecked and just wants to live a normal life.

In both cases, there was an illness. It sucked, it killed people, it pretty much did what it was going to do.

I’m sorry. Was that insufficiently emotive for half the electorate?

That’s exactly the situation. My thinking is insufficiently emotive for Biden’s pitch.

I’m not done yet but I’ll stop here for now. Stay tuned.

The debate last week bummed me out. I gave it time to simmer and let other commenters have at it. However, it seems like nobody saw what I saw or reacted as I have.

Trump and Biden weren’t talking about different goals, they were talking about different levels of existence. Trump kept going back to concrete reality; mostly his accomplishments. “I saved the Pac 10, I got the ventilators made, I closed the airports on day X…” Love him or hate him, the Big Orange Goofball at least spewed out lists of things that are measurable.

I’ll start with the least controversial topic covered, because I want to see the forest, not the trees. Trump mentioned restarting college football among his accomplishments. Do I give a shit about the Pac 10? Not really. Do I think the President needs to be fucking around with football? Nope. Do I think universities ought to have better things to do with their time? Definitely! But a football game is an event. It either happens or it doesn’t. I can evaluate the results in real time, right here on earth.

That’s my point. Trump talked about things he did and events that really happened. He never stops  boasting in his uniquely ridiculous way but his arguments can be measured with units: “The number of games played by athletic meatheads is X.” The events also actually happened. This is different from someone like Al Gore who lives in the future which is more or less far enough away to avoid responsibility. I’m sick of “we’re all gonna’ die from some random environmental panic in thirty years” and prefer “the football game happened on Friday.” Maybe Trump’s Pac 10 event is a good thing or maybe it’s a bad thing but it’s definitely a thing.

Biden was talking to an entirely different world. It started with Biden’s first and most formidable attack. He led with a litany of how many people have died of COVID. Here’s a snippet from the transcript:

“…200,000 dead. As you said, over seven million infected in the United States. We, in fact, have 4% of the world’s population, 20% of the deaths. 40,000 people a day are contracting COVID. In addition to that, about between 750 and 1000 people a day are dying.”

I was paying attention as Biden listed all those statistics. One can quibble about details, but that stuff happened in reality. Then things went sideways.

Leaping off from the solid base he’d just built to pure speculation, Biden argued that all this was due to Trump. Like Trump was in the White House’s basement, playing with his “unhinged Dr. Moreau junior experiment kit” and he caused every COVID death personally. It was dissonant to me. No matter who the president happens to be, he’s not running around with a dart gun filled with poison.

I had to pause and relisten. He’d swerved so fast he’d lost me. I didn’t easily follow where Biden was going with this. I simply don’t think of the president as my pal. I don’t think of a virus as subservient to government control. I don’t think a thing that emerged in China and has killed people in 214 countries takes orders from DC. And most clearly to me, any death is tragic but there’s no avoiding it.

The minute COVID got loose, people were going to die. Whether it came from the Wuhan Lab or a bat sandwich, people were going to die. Whether we fuck the economy into the ground and cower behind hermetically sealed doors or get naked and roll around in a great clusterfuck, people are going to die. There was no “solution” to COVID that is without death. It doesn’t matter if the president is Trump, Biden, or Bugs Bunny… death was inevitable.

Biden was shooting for the “Trump is the cause of COVID” angle. I think that gets a lot of traction with his supporters. It seemed flaky and weird to me.

Biden piled on with emotional content. Apparently, Trump was insufficiently sad about the thing. Here’s another snippet from the transcript: “When he was presented with that number, he said, ‘It is what it is.’ Well, it is what it is because you are who you are. That’s why it is.”

I’m pretty sure this makes sense to the right person. It’s a mess to me.

First of all, what the hell did he actually say? Did he imply that it’s bad that “I am who I am” because I ought to be someone more important? Did Biden just mansplain to me that I’m an oppressed rube? I don’t feel oppressed. Trump doesn’t even know my name but neither does Biden.

Deeper at the heart of it is complaining about Presidential emotions. Heart disease, cancer, suicide, and accidents are all in the top ten of “why people die”. They all suck. Would they suck less if Trump weeps every day over it? Is that the president’s job? I don’t expect anyone (including Trump or Biden) to assuage my butthurt about how much it sucks that people die of heart disease?

How can a rational person bitch about the proper level of concern; particularly in a debate? What’s the right response to that line of attack? Should Trump say “I cower at my desk over the immensity of human suffering from 9:35 am to 9:50 am every Tuesday… it’s right here on my calendar.” I suppose the Pope might do that but not a political representative. Also, what amount of emotion anyone should display on Thursday, October 8^th over heart disease, or COVID, or leukemia? Who put Biden in charge of evaluating the proper emotional distress one should experience? Is there a chart somewhere? Is ten minutes enough? Do we need thirty? Will that “fix” it?

I’m just getting rolling. More soon.

Sometimes I have the right idea but don’t follow through. Back in 2016, I blogged my opinion on presidential election debates:

“You might be thinking about watching tonight’s debates. I’d like to offer this helpful suggestion: Don’t!”

I explained my reasoning, tying it to a saccharine sweet political suppository delivered by Bill Clinton in 1992. Bill’s performance was too theatric; my whole body rejected the manipulation.

“Bill nailed it! He turned his gaze slightly upwards, as if viewing an imaginary and gorgeous place. Somewhere far off and wonderful. The media did their part too, the camera angle changed. Suddenly we were looking from a lower vantage point upwards to our heroic father figure. He was looking at what must’ve been a studio ceiling but he made it look like he was gazing upon the face of God. He glanced left and then he glanced right. He did it just the way they teach you; so the spotlights catch your eyes and they twinkle. And it worked! His eyes twinkled like he was Santa Claus. Then he said something. After his warm up whatever he said didn’t matter but he nailed that too. It was something about how great family was. It talked about love, and joy, and the mutual bonds we all hold dear.

It was a fucking Hallmark moment. And I was repulsed.”

I learned my lesson 28 years ago. Unfortunately, four years after suffering the grossest election I’d ever experienced I let my guard down. I watched the Trump/Biden debates. Rudyard Kipling knows why:

“the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,

And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;”

The whole thing bummed me out. I wasn’t surprised that Trump behaved like a howler monkey on crack and Biden just barely managed to stay lucid enough to mumble lies and shout “shut up clown”. They both suck. We already knew that. I have made peace with that. The thing that bothered me is deeper.

Misery loves company, so I’m going to share my little mental adventure with you. Perhaps you too see the depths of the situation? Maybe you’ll see a silver lining I’m missing. Stay tuned.