Archive for July, 2010

National Anthem

Saturday, July 3rd, 2010

Memo For File CXIX

Saturday, July 3rd, 2010

This comes to you without so much as a trace of novelty, if you’ve been living anywhere apart from another planet, or at the bottom of the Gulf, for the last ten years. But the people in the United States — indeed, all of the civilized countries across the globe — have been bitterly fractured among three broad groups. They are right-wingers, left-wingers and the folks who don’t care.

Some will protest, with legitimacy, that this fails to capture their outlook. For sake of figuring out what’s going on around us, let us throw an ornamental nod their way, since they do possess some significance, but then cast them aside so that we may more closely inspect the Big Three.

The situation has remained trapped in stasis for a full decade or more. The reason this is so, is that the moderates have the final vote. Their fatigue with the conflict arouses the greatest symapthy, they feel it most keenly, and they announce it most bumptiously. A myth has arisen that the other two entities see nothing wrong with the inflammation, in fact that the closer one migrates to the two extreme end-points, the more he comes to thrive on it.

In spite of a popular acquiescence to this bit of mythos, there is little evidence to sustain it and an abundance of evidence available to refute it. Generally speaking, as an individual intensifies his or her beliefs, in the cases where the beliefs become ideologically crystalized there is some reason for this to take place. When you “know” you’re right about something you don’t want other people you know to be wrong; and so there emerges a natural human instinct to want to proselytize. The heat and the noise interfere with the proselytizing. And so the extremists don’t really cotton to it. They don’t like it. They generally would like a more orderly environment in which they could get their word out.

I would argue that, if anything, it’s the moderates who enjoy the dissention. It helps to display their indecision in a light of false maturity. It makes the political environment look like a child’s playground, and lends credibility to the idea that only a mental juvenile could make up his mind about anything in such a hotbed of chaos.

Besides, this instinct of promulgating one’s own beliefs among others — it extends to the moderates as well. Most people don’t realize this, but it’s true. When you can’t make up your mind about something you tend to recoil at the idea of anyone else coming out of the woodwork and making that decision. Can’t look cool with that going on.

Another falsehood has bubbled up from this swamp of confusion and despair: The myth of symmetry. When a democrat is caught lying, somewhere a Republican is doing the same thing. When a democrat politician sleeps around on his wife, somewhere there has to be a Republican doing the same thing. Republicans and democrats are equally “closed-minded” about the issues…

This one, I believe, is being kept alive by the left wing. It always seems to be helping them. Notice up above I said “When a democrat [does X]…a Republican does the same thing.” It always seems to drift in that direction; it rarely to never comes back the other way. I have yet to read any chronicling of the Watergate scandal that signed off with an undertone of “and somewhere a democrat did exactly the same thing.”

But if it were bi-directional, it would remain untrue. Larry Elder once said “Conservatives consider liberals well-intentioned, but misguided. Liberals consider conservatives not only wrong, but really, really bad people..” That is an accurate summation of the situation in which we find ourselves. Yes, conservatives think liberals are wrong and liberals think conservatives are wrong — but not in the same way. Not by a damn sight.

And so in this society in which it is thought unkind, slanderous and inaccurate to contradict the supposed wisdom and maturity of the moderates, it is unthinkable to articulate the following in any public venue, anywhere louder than a whisper:

People who do the best job of defeating the raw hatred, generally, are conservatives.

We have a lot of moderates who say otherwise. I’m expected to place great trust in them, and there is a lot of protest waiting for me if I so much as hesitate. But such moderates rarely turn out to be real moderates. Over the last ten years we’ve seen an unnamed, and uncomfortable, genre emerge on television and in the movies. “Desperate Housewives” on the small screen, “American Beauty” on the big one. There are others. The message in this genre is that people who live in nice houses are monsters, living corrupted lives filled with deception and betrayal.

These are liberals pretending to be moderates, who make shows like this. Supposedly it’s just Hollywood chasing the next buck. But the message is one of disbelief in humanity. Man is not redeemable; he is flawed, but not as a result of any great fall; he was created as you see him today, writhing around in the muck, stabbing his friends in the back.

This is where the hatred comes from. It’s a perverted worldview, one that is built to provide a friendly environment for the next new dictator. It says none of us may trust anyone else. We are worthless. We are as civilized now as we ever have been, since we’re in a state of upward evolution — but we cannot ascend to the next level until someone wonderful, some super-mortal, comes along and carries us there.

And there is no symmetry here. Once again, we see conservatives are not different from liberals quite the same way that liberals are different from conservatives. Think back, long and hard: Who are the liberal superstars, going back to the Clinton era? Sure they draw much adulation. I’m thinking of Ted Kennedy, Barack Obama, Al Gore, et al. Lots of cheering wherever they go. But is there any genuine trust? Would the liberals who cheer these demigods, rate them highly on a list that includes their own personal acquaintances as trustworthy people?

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Given a choice of having Sarah Palin or Ted Kennedy watch his own kids for a whole week, a conservative would pick Palin — and a liberal would place his kids in her care as well. Oh, yes. Yes he would. As long as they were his kids. Being a liberal is all about demanding others place trust in someone whom you, yourself, don’t find to be all that wholesome or trustworthy.

It’s about hate, too. How many conservatives do you know who would like to put Barack Obama and Joe Biden in a big iron pot, fill it with oil, light a fire under it and watch ’em cook? Heard a lot of that kind of hate lately? Me neither.

But walk into a room filled with liberals and drop the name “Dick Cheney.” Then get out. Fast.

Liberal comedians generally aren’t that funny; not unless you’re a committed liberal. Jon Stewart is an exception to this. He’ll stay liberal as long as it is comfortable and easy to get suckered into being one. Once the situation gets silly, he has the proper tough questions ready and give the man credit, he has drawn the boos and jeers over it. But when David Letterman cracks a joke about Sarah Palin’s daughter being molested by a baseball player, it just isn’t that funny. There is a palpable veneer of anger underneath. Such jokes are based on a wish that it’ll really happen. And don’t even get me started on that walking seething bubbling cauldron that goes by the name of Bill Maher.

When a liberal policy presents itself as being good for “us,” it’s good for “all of us.” We have to keep the earth livable, plug the damn hole…all of that. But what about policies that are good for some of us, and bad for others of us? What about policies that end the existence of some among us? Liberals love those policies just as much, provided it’s the right people being sent to oblivion. When a mother decides to slaughter her unborn baby, they don’t care. They define the baby out of existence so they can give her that right.

It has to do with that vision I described up above. As individuals, we don’t really have any rights, and nothing about our continuing survival is sacred except for the continuation of the species. We’ve always been as deplorable as we are now, but we’re as glorious now as we ever have been. It’s all about evolution; we’re waiting in limbo for the next remarkable demigod superhuman to carry us to the next step. And so if a few of the less desirable are whittled off, that’s just a pruning. Survival of the fittest. You have to break few eggs to make an omelette. That’s the liberal view.

You doubt me?

Think back on the last two, or four, or more arguments you’ve had with liberals. These need not be confrontational and they need not even be unfriendly. Perhaps you had a “meeting of the minds” during a holiday meal. Just think of the exchanges you have had that fit what I have in mind. Which means something like this:

LIBERAL: This is your final warning. Forsake that which is sensible and swear fidelity to my nonsense, or I shall denounce you as an uncool person and make sure you cannot ever be part of my little club.

YOU: Yeah, okay. But anyhow… (fact) (fact) (fact)

LIBERAL: Ah yes, but there is more to it than that. Too bad you’re such a simpleton you cannot see the nuance. Everybody else can. (SMUG SMIRK).

I’m talking about the confrontations with liberals that degenerate into that layer, the layer that fits that mini-dialogue. You really shouldn’t have to do too much recollecting. Nearly all of them dovetail into this. The last example I saw was over here, just the other night:

I’m probably giving both you and Cassy a much more thoughtful answer than you deserve or could value, but hey that’s me.

Follow the link if you want context. But it is the outcome I wish to inspect, for the pattern is a constant. Smug liberal is in the circle. Cassy and I are outside of it. She counts. We don’t.

Now, you remember that instinct to which I alluded above? To proselytize. If you really do see things a certain way, whatever way that might be, it is human nature to want to correct the flaws of others and to motivate them to see things your way. Here, there is a curious drop-off in that instinct. You are wrong, as wrong as wrong can possibly be. But that’s quite alright because you are stupid and expected to be wrong. You are detritus. There is no further satisfaction to be realized through some vision of teaching you the error of your ways. We’re already at Nirvana, because the Man-God-King is in the White House, everybody who counts can see what is good and decent and true — you just don’t count. It doesn’t matter if you’re married to the liberal’s favorite daughter. There is an impenetrable crystaline bubble, from the inside of which the liberal gazes down upon you with the smug smirk. In Xanadu did Kublai Kahn in his stately pleasure dome decree…

This is chilling, when you start to comprehend what is really happening here.

Liberals are religious. They have a concept of a heavenly kingdom — and dissenters are not to be part of it. They believe in that next wave of evolution. Darwin’s pencil is going to be everlastingly sharpened, and once you’re drummed out of the cool-club, you’re nothing more than a shaving. Oh, they prattle on about I.Q., and big brains and little brains and xenophobia and clinging to God and guns. But they aren’t really talking about any of that, they’re talking about Elect and Damned, just like a seventeenth-century religious order that preaches predestination. It is not the brain matter inside your head, it is the sign that has been engraved upon the crown of that head.

This is a constant. There are people who belong, and there are people who do not. All liberal arguments boil down to this. Actually, the only difference I see between liberalism and Calvinism is that Calvinists have balls. They’re willing to say a Supreme Being and His Divine Will handed out this status to as-yet-unborn souls…you’re going to heaven, you’re going to hell. Liberalism won’t tolerate any belief in a Higher Power, so in their view we’re all separated in exactly the same way but nobody’s responsible for it. It just happened.

In this way, we see liberalism and conservatism have actually exchanged places. It’s been a very slow process, unfolding across a couple hundred years or more. But there is no symmetry here. When a liberal says we “all” have a right to a livelihood and a comfortable standard of living, they don’t really mean “all.” Go on, ask a left-winger if Karl Rove has a right to these things. Ask him if Ann Coulter and Sarah Palin can have these things. That’s a negatori…

When conservatives say hey — even if BP has messed it up with that oil spill something fierce, there’s still something wrong with a sitting President giving them instructions about how much money they should put in escrow to be managed by a bunch of lawyers — they do not say this because they think BP is wonderful, soft cute & cuddly and they just want to take it home and feed it a bowl of milk. The conservatives I know who agree with this, agree with only this. They mean what they say: It’s just wrong. It doesn’t matter if it’s BP or the guy who cut you off on the freeway this morning and flipped you the bird. It doesn’t matter who. This is a concept that has escaped liberals. In their world, there really is no such thing as a universal human right. They aren’t quite sure what kind of rights you have, until they can first figure out your level of wonderfulness. Then they’ll let you know what your rights are.

I said before that the moderates decide elections. This has been proven over and over again, so the name of the game becomes one of liberals trying to get moderates to vote liberal, and conservatives trying to get them to vote conservative. But the moderates have no passion; they just want the fighting to end. As long as the liberals can portray themselves as leading the way toward harmony, moderates will vote liberal and liberals will win elections. Even in years like 2010 conservatives have to keep this in mind, and be wary of it. Disappointment is not part of the equation, because moderates demonstrate precious little capacity for long-term memory, or interest in developing it. So liberals can start as many fights as they want to, and over the long term they’ll still look like Mahatma Ghandi himself if they mouth the right buzz words. At least, they’ll look that way to the moderates, which is what counts.

But the funny thing is, in the things that really matter in life, moderates stand with conservatives.

When two boys get in a fight on the playground, moderates are united with conservatives in their desire to take a chunk out of the hide of whichever boy threw the first punch. Liberals stand alone in demanding a pound of flesh from whoever threw the last one. Moderates want to avoid making enemies, save for the enemies that are powerless and costless as enemies. They want to have the right friends, to enjoy the defense of whoever is strong. Liberals want to abolish strength. You see, that is a different goal. And it is not a mainstream desire. Most people understand we cannot have a world without strength, and if we try to build one, strength will be monopolized by whoever is energetic and unscrupulous. Even moderates can see that.

So for the liberals to win the moderates over, they have to dissuade people from thinking about such things. Rich get richer and poor get poorer. Global warming. Arugula.

Never let a crisis go to waste.

You see, it isn’t that conservatives abjure hate from their systems because they’re wonderful people or something. Some conservatives are stinkers. The asymmetry is that the conservatives simply don’t care that much. They are evaluators of ideas. The first time you see a rotten guy coming up with a good idea, and a decent wonderful person coming up with a stupid idea, the lesson is crystal-clear: Arguing about who’s a super-genius and who’s leaving the “g” sound off the end of her words, is an abject stupid waste of time.

When you get overly hung up on personal attributes and start looking for that next wonderful mortal demigod to haul all of humanity to the next level of evolution, you start getting hoodwinked into stupid ideas. Like for example…when we have this oil leak in the Gulf, what we need to do is passively stand by and allow the oil company that caused the spill to clean it up, and while they’re cleaning it up, extort billions of dollars out of them. And pass cap-and-trade.

Moderates, when they manage their own affairs, are conservatives. So are some liberals. They wouldn’t make decisions this way about their own personal issues. And they’d rather have Sarah Palin watch their kids than the average liberal politician. See, different rules.

Also, in their world, there’s never any such thing as reaching “a certain point” where “you’ve made enough money.” That’s just another rule for you and me, but not for them.

Cross-posted at Cassy’s place.
Cross-posted at Right Wing News.

Conan the Barbarian: The Musical

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

I was wondering if this should make it in. When my face got all discolored as I tried to keep oatmeal off the keyboard, and I barely succeeded at this, I knew I had my answer.

Hat tip to Joan of Argghh!

Blended Families on the News

Thursday, July 1st, 2010

The morning idjit-broadcast was running while I was gathering up my money clip and sunglasses and cell phone. The lighter side of the news was running off, for the moment, about blended families.

They can work, said the leggy anchor-babe. She started rattling off some names which included John and Elizabeth Edwards.

I paused from lacing up my sneakers. “Did I hear that right?” I asked.

“Yup,” said She Who Listens To The Morning Drivel.

“It’s as if they rise at midnight every morning and have a quick planning session about what they can do to stop people from taking them seriously anymore,” I said.

“Pretty much,” said She.

A quick kiss, and off I went to bring home the bacon.

Whaddya think? When the camera’s no longer rolling is the anchor babe just smacking herself in the forehead saying “Aiiieeee! Can’t believe I said that!” …?

“Wonder Woman to Finally Start Wearing Pants”

Thursday, July 1st, 2010

Yeah, that there is pretty much my textbook definition of a bad idea.

Okay, so we’ve got James Bond becoming Jason Bourne; Superman’s a deadbeat dad; Indiana Jones is communicating with extraterrestrials; John Connor becomes a wimpy little she-male so he can make his bride look all big and tough; now the Champion of Themiscyra is being re-made into a Private Vasquez knock-off.

This is a bigger issue than skimpy star-spangled panties. The overall trend is that iconic, individualist characters are losing their identities. They’re being neutralized and reincarnated as stock characters.

It’s an abandonment of history. And that brings many perils. It’s a manifestation of a younger generation that is disinterested in what came before — they want all the things that will consume their attention, to be positioned for that consumption behind a narrow selection of avenues. They want comfort as they supposedly broaden their horizons; more comfort than can be realized while one is truly broadening one’s horizons.

It is also an abandonment of individuality. There have been some awkward moments through the years as James Bond is presented to a newer generation, but up until now Bond has held his ground. Quitting smoking has been about the only significant nod to the changing times. He was who he was; you could take him or leave him. But no more. And perhaps as a direct result of that, Bond’s having trouble finding money to make his next film. Of course he is. What point is there to having him around?

A similar fate awaits Wonder Woman, I think. She has amnesia about her past, wears long pants, and is a street fighter. Gee. Like that’s never been done before. What’s next? I know! We can go La Femme Nikita, she can get busted and hired by a super secret Government agency under an assumed identity, and she has to complete the missions they give her or they’ll throw her in jail.

I wouldn’t have been opposed to a partial re-tooling and re-vamping. The invisible jet has been a joke for about as long as it’s been around. But making her into something she’s not, is just too much. It’s a suicide pact.

Update 7/2/10: James Hudnall at Big Hollywood is giving a very thoughtful treatment to the makeover, although by “thoughtful” what I really mean is “scathing.” Some of his points have a lot of merit. The owners/creators of this particular character, in the decades and generations past, have been caught paying an excess of fealty to the feminists. And it’s easy to see why.

From the very first time a pencil met paper to sketch out this character, the purpose has been to show that women possess potential superior to men. I suppose when a young artist picks up the tradition it’s only natural to listen to the militant feminists when they tell him “Yer doin’ it wrong.” But that’s no excuse for ignorance. If Wonder Woman is a symbol of the idea that a woman’s way is the right way, and she always has been that from the very beginning, then her costume is a feminist banner and so was the costume it replaced, and the costume that replaced, and so on. There is no victory over the patriarchy here.

Kind of reminds me of when the guy used the word “niggardly” in a city council staff meeting and ended up getting canned, even when he opened the dictionary and proved the word had no racist connotations. Perception-over-reality and all that. Facts don’t matter because “we all” see things a certain way.

So Diana Prince is in pants. Take that, chauvinist scum!

Thanks to blogger friend Joan of Argghh! for calling us out over there.

“Ideology Doesn’t Matter”

Thursday, July 1st, 2010

Steve Sailer:

…[T]he winners of WWII, America and Britain, kept their old-fashioned elitist colleges like Harvard, Yale, Oxford, and Cambridge old-fashioned and elitist. The losers, like Germany, France, and Italy, after the war trashed their great universities on the altar of egalitarianism by going to open admissions. (In the U.S., CCNY was the only famous college to take the Spirit of ’68 seriously enough to dump selective admissions.) Today, that’s why ambitious Korean and Chinese students want to go to American or British universities, not to Continental ones: We won The War.

The French, not being fools, however, kept a number of small elite colleges, the grandes écoles, to publicly educate the small number of people who keep the place running. Not surprisingly, blacks and North Africans have a hard time passing the entrance exams to the French equivalent of Caltech at rates equal to whites.

Because entrance to the best grandes écoles effectively guarantees top jobs for life, the government is prodding the schools to set a goal of increasing the percentage of scholarship students to 30 percent — more than three times the current ratio at the most selective schools. But the effort is being met with concerns from the grandes écoles, who fear it could dilute standards, and is stirring anger among the French at large, who fear it runs counter to a French ideal of a meritocracy blind to race, religion and ethnicity.

France imagines itself a country of “republican virtue,” a meritocracy run by a well-trained elite that emerges from a fiercely competitive educational system. At its apex are the grandes écoles, about 220 schools of varying specialties. And at the very top of this pyramid are a handful of famous institutions that accept a few thousand students a year among them, all of whom pass extremely competitive examinations to enter.

… The problem is not simply the narrow base of the elite, but its self-satisfaction. “France has so many problems with innovation,” Mr. Descoings said. Those who pass the tests “are extremely smart and clever, but the question is: Are you creative? Are you willing to put yourself at risk? Lead a battle?” These are qualities rarely tested in exams.

Whereas imposing a quota will suddenly produce creative risk-takers. Right. That’s why Google was founded by Michelle Obama. [emphasis mine]

This is not exclusively a French problem. But it’s a pretty bad one.

Take a moment to think about the big picture of testing things. How can a test be flawed? There are two levels of sin here: A test can be non-productive, or it can be counter-productive. A non-productive test is blind and therefore random. Think of the airport passenger safety screener. If his metal detector is unplugged from the wall all day long, that’s what I’m talking about.

The next level beyond that would be profiling for terrorists. When you find a match, or when you X-ray the boarding party and find some individuals with crotch-bombs and shoe-bombs and liquid chemicals and guns — you wave them on to the plane and frisk the white-haired blue-eyed Scottish grandmothers.

These kinds of tests, I’m afraid, are counter-productive and not non-productive. They look for people who can follow instructions well. They look for the elite within that…and end up finding people who can follow extraordinarily nebulous instructions better than most anyone else.

Within a small sample this doesn’t do much damage. Over a larger one, it’s going to ultimately mean you’re sifting out the most creative resourceful people. Overall, the people who are best at responding to empathic signals from a stranger, are going to be the ones who aren’t very creative.

They will be confronted with an unorthodox situation, and their response will be to insist on a sequenced, numbered list of procedures to follow.

And in general, this has been precisely what has taken place. Inside of France and outside of it.

Hat tip to Dyspepsia Generation.

The Right Ear, It Sticks Way Out

Thursday, July 1st, 2010

Yup, like I said in the e-mail when he came asking permission, I can’t hide forever. My brother has posted old family pictures.

So if you’ve a mind to do so, you can study the face that is stretched over the brain behind The Blog That Nobody Reads.

“Makes Alan Alda Look Like Genghis Khan”

Thursday, July 1st, 2010

Kathleen Parker says Barack Obama is our first female President.

…Obama displays many tropes of femaleness. I say this in the nicest possible way. I don’t think that doing things a woman’s way is evidence of deficiency but, rather, suggests an evolutionary achievement.

Nevertheless, we still do have certain cultural expectations, especially related to leadership. When we ask questions about a politician’s beliefs, family or hobbies, we’re looking for familiarity, what we can cite as “normal” and therefore reassuring.

Generally speaking, men and women communicate differently. Women tend to be coalition builders rather than mavericks (with the occasional rogue exception). While men seek ways to measure themselves against others, for reasons requiring no elaboration, women form circles and talk it out.

Obama is a chatterbox who makes Alan Alda look like Genghis Khan.

The BP oil crisis has offered a textbook case of how Obama’s rhetorical style has impeded his effectiveness. The president may not have had the ability to “plug the damn hole,” as he put it in one of his manlier outbursts. No one expected him to don his wetsuit and dive into the gulf, but he did have the authority to intervene immediately and he didn’t. Instead, he deferred to BP, weighing, considering, even delivering jokes to the White House Correspondents’ Association dinner when he should have been on Air Force One to the Louisiana coast.

I do find this a little bit unfair to the fairer sex. The criticism against His Eminence isn’t quite so much all-talk-no-action (although it is some of that); it’s that His motivation in any given situation is to adjust the emotional tenor. All vibe, no outcome.

This isn’t quite realistic. I’ve personally known of some chicks who can kick male ass all over the place when it comes to taking control over an outcome.

But Barack Obama, sad to say, is not one of these ladies. He’s one of the lesser girls…the unpleasant shrews…the ugly-girlfriends…the mothers-in-law. The available energy all goes into some dictatorial effort to tell lesser beings how they are supposed to feel.

To make a decision that alters the state of things — that takes balls, sad to say. And we don’t have a President with balls…sad to say. We won’t have one until Sarah Palin’s hand goes on the Bible in 2013. Until then, the closest we get is control-freakishness about our feelings.

Hat tip to blogger friend Rick.

Memo For File CXVIII

Thursday, July 1st, 2010

There is a record of dissolution dated November 3, 1991, with my name affixed upon it. And so it seems I had a different marital status up until that date, although I cannot recall much from that era. I remember living in a single-wide, which I did not want but my ex-wife did. Only other former spouses, similarly discarded like so much garbage, will understand how it came to pass that I resided therein all by myself.

I came out of this experience, eventually, whole again but not unchanged. I had nightmares about this piece of crap I’d been sold. But it was inside its dillapidated innards that I began to figure out where I really wanted to live. In there. When it was too late to do anything about it. As I lived the dream of a woman who wanted nothing more to do with me.

I thought of it again just now, as I finished hauling in groceries in hundred degree heat, for the benefit of another woman much more deserving of such male deference. My dream house, you see, has not too many definitions because I’ve not put a lot of thought into it. But it does have an elegant solution for grocery shopping, one that has been reinforced by years and decades of acquiring food. There is a behemoth that guzzles diesel fuel by the bushel for this purpose, which would give Al Gore a heart attack — unless, that is, it was put under his control. Four-on-the-floor. Retractable stepladder for use by full-grown men, not just petite ladies. The fuel mileage is in the single digits. You wouldn’t believe how many groceries this thing holds. In my dream house, I go grocery shopping every three, four, five months or so.

My dream house has a garage especially built for the dream behemoth. It’s down by the south end, near the pool area, because the land upon which the house is built is gently sloped such that this is where you reach the lower levels. A dumbwaiter is way over-sized for Queen Victoria’s era, it wouldn’t fit there at all. This is a twenty-first century dumb-waiter. It’s a good seven feet deep by eight-to-nine feet wide. It passes through three or four floors of the main building, delivering hundreds of cubic feet of groceries not only to the main kitchen, but to the computer room as well. Hey, repairs will be necessary and some of them might be local. There are file servers, database servers, video servers, satellite servers, web servers. Every now and then one of ’em will blow a power supply, so the dumb-waiter stands ready to assist.

That’s the grocery garage. The commuter garage is in another building, on the West side. This is the one I use every single day, as I shuttle my butt to a skyscraper housing a big important software firm of which I am the President and CEO. The commuter vehicle is considerably smaller than the grocery behemoth, costs a good bit more, and perhaps is maintained a bit more lovingly.

I never drive it in reverse. Not at home. Not when I pull out of the garage in the morning, and not when I pull in at night. Driving backwards on any kind of daily basis is a burden I’ve given up here. The commuter garage is round, about 23 feet in diameter total, and there is a twelve-foot turntable in the middle. It rotates 180 degrees clockwise every time the garage door is closed, you see. So it isn’t necessary for this garage to have two openings, in fact it connects to a single tunnel concealed underground.

Porsche 911 Turbo SThere is a pedestrian underground tunnel that links to this commuter garage, and affixed to this is a changing room that is always stocked with clean, folded swim trunks and towels. My servants keep it that way. From here I can dive straight into the indoor pool, which naturally connects to the outdoor pool. So yes, it’s rather rare that a business owner clocks out at five sharp, in fact I know it almost never happens. But it ain’t no big thing. I can work ’til it’s pitch black, pilot my 911 Turbo S home, down through the underground tunnel just like Batman. Park it on the turntable, strip down, walk through the narrow passage way and dive right in. Oh my I do believe I forgot to mention the swim trunks. That’s how it would go when there’s no company; work, commute, tunnel, turntable, birthday suit, indoor pool, outdoor pool, hot tub. And then my sweetie brings me a roast beef samrich. And you just know there’s a waterproof keyboard out there.

Anyway, I thought that was a stroke of genius. A garage for bringing in the food, and another garage for leaving for work. These are two different things you see. Two different lists of requirements.

The master bedroom is a wonder of the world. You could play basketball in this thing. It’s impossible to figure out where the bedroom ends and the bathroom begins. His-and-Hers sinks are spaced apart from each other, and angled away too. There is copious surface space on the female side of this arrangement; before she unpacks her gear you’ll wonder how it can all be put to good use. After she’s unpacked, you’ll wonder why you were wondering. It won’t bother me one little bit. And my beard trimmings in the sink won’t bother her one little bit. The shower stall is more luxurious than anything you’ve seen in any four-star hotel. The tiles are all obsidian. The shitter is in a separate room all closed in, and the sunken Roman tub is in a separate room all open. It peeks out over the balcony. Again, there is an excess of surface space for magazines, champagne ice buckets, roast beef samrich plates, and yeah another waterproof keyboard. There is a fridge built into the base of the Roman tub as well. And of course there is a gigantic glass fireplace.

Master BedroomHer closet — it’s a floor. The next floor down. She descends the spiral staircase, like Venus fresh borne on the ocean waves, in her undergarments, then she makes herself up. Every inch of space under that leviathan of a master bedroom suite, it’s all hers.

The master suite does not seem as functional at six in the evening as it does about eight or nine hours later; it is built for sacrificing R.E.M. sleep for a little more carnal delight. It has 210 degrees of view all over everything. But the way the specially tinted light works with the windows, folks inside can see all over everything outside, while nobody outside can see what’s going on inside. Directly adjoining this is the highest room in the entire palace, the “observatory.” Perfectly round, fourteen feet in diameter, with a powerful electronic telescope and a transparent hemispherical roof. There is very little in the observatory. Just a table for an ice cold beverage, a bean bag chair, and my massive comic book & girly mag collection.

There has to be a wood shop. There has to be one. It has a wood lathe and a drill press and an air compressor and a pottery wheel and an oil change pit. Yeah that’s right, this is a third garage. You park a car to drop off the groceries, you park the car to enter your domicile after a hard day’s work, and you park the car to change the oil. Dream House Morgan is a multi-billionaire software mogul, and he buys his own food and changes his own oil.

The two-wheeled vehicles are in yet another building. There is at least one hybrid bicycle, a real “mountain” bike or two, several high-end racing bikes that cost more than cars. There are pulley systems that store these vessels out of the way up top, there is a repair stand, and storage space for the water bottles, energy bars, spare tubes, spoke wrenches, and apparel. We haven’t even gotten to the motorcycles yet. Hogs, Yamaha, Suzuki, Kawasaki, Honda. Lots of Honda. The way I figure it, the Goldwing will be stored here, and the trailer will probably go in that other building, in the workshop. There may be some neglected toys, but the Goldwing & trailer will not be among them. They’ll get a workout.

Sunsets are precious to me, and as I get older they are becoming more precious. (This was prophesied to me by a stranger when I was sixteen, and the prophecy has come true.) The westernmost building is set aside for the most masculine pursuits. The largest decking for barbecues is out here, along with a billiards room, and — for when the sunsets aren’t imminent — a home theater downstairs that has no windows whatsoever. Yet another computer station is concealed in this building, also downstairs, sharing the allocated volume with the home theater. My dream house, you see, accommodates my mood during any given moment — not the other way around.

Yes, I have some computing to do that is best done when there are no windows. But that’s one hour out of every four, I’d guess. Maybe less than that. The rest of the time I want to survey my domain, like a majestic lion. And so the top-most floor of the largest, most Southern building, is allocated for a single gigantic room: The Master Study. Primary workstation. Secondary and tertiary workstations. Three monitors apiece. The server room is just adjacent (and the behemoth garage, with eight-foot-wide dumbwaiter, is downstairs). This suite has its own pisser and coffeemaker. And, for when the time is right, a fridge with beer. Perhaps some blogging would get done here now and then. The view is the best in the entire house — a full thirty-five feet off the ground, with a wide-open view of the ocean.

It faces directly South, so the glass shades itself automatically when the sun becomes merciless.

You can swim directly from the indoor pool into the living room…after you swim from the outdoor pool, through a passage, into the indoor pool. And you swam there straight from the bubble-jet hot tub. You can walk from the living room to the dining room. From the dining room, up a spiral staircase, you emerge on a mezzanine which sports a fully-stocked wet bar, overlooking the viewscreen which is sixteen feet wide and displays a projection-teevee image that can be seen by all. Had you kept walking, you could go from there into the full-sized kitchen, but why would you want to do that? There is a laptop docking station by the wet bar, whose video channel can be spliced to this mammoth projection teevee screen. Every now and then, coming home from work, this just might be my mode: I might have an idea I’ll want to refine. I toldja. The Dream House accommodates my emotional profile in a given moment, not the other way around.

So you can watch the viewscreen from below, in the classic furniture cluster. With my favorite Archie Bunker recliner down there. You can watch it from above, at the wet bar. Or a bit closer, from the laptop docking station. Type in a letter, watch it appear on the screen, bigger than a man’s head. Awesome!

When it’s time to watch a movie, the video server is at your beckon-call. It’s connected to a jukebox. Back in the early ’90s, when I was writing the software to regulate a real-life optical-jukebox unit taller than a refrigerator that could store 50 GB (!), the dream house boasted a quieter model that cycled through 6 terabytes. Eighteen years wiser now, I bow to Moore’s Law. I no longer pretend to have an idea of what the goddamn thing stores or how it does it. I just want it to displace this bulky four-level bookshelf which surely must be home to more than 500 discs of James Bond movies, 1980’s teevee shows, and macho-movies like Patton, Braveheart, 300, Beowulf, The Incredibles, Die Hard, Raiders of the Lost Ark and A Bridge Too Far. The remote cycles through a tree-configured database. You sit in the easy chair, and go Movies -> Action/Adventure -> James Bond -> Goldfinger (1964) Sean Connery -> Play. Play & pause are run by a unique clap-on clap-off interface, for those all-important bathroom breaks. And yeah, I wrote the software that does it all.

Pool PartyThe wine cellar is concealed behind a secret panel on the ground floor. It is kept at a constant temperature of 38 degrees Fahrenheit. This is very close to the dumwaiter, for the benefit of those grocery shopping trips that are entirely liquid. There is a thick plexiglass portal between the wine cellar and the indoor pool, from which you can see the swimmers underwater. The wine cellar sort of funnels into yet another secret passage, which leads to the other building with the bedrooms.

There is another building with a real library. Three floors. With ladders on wheels, just like in the old movies.

The Western-most building has a reason for being there, and it makes the most of it. So does the Eastern-most. And the Southernmost. The Southern end is where all the partying happens; the final frontier before you meet the ocean. That’s where my boat is parked. That’s where the extra-large, industrial-level gas barbecue lives. And the bubble-jet hot tub. And the soft-serve ice cream bar. All my house parties turn into pool parties.

Seven buildings all-in-all. Forty-three thousand, six hundred fifty square feet. Four floors if you don’t count that observatory with the electronic telescope, five floors if you do.

But I really haven’t put that much thought into it.

Right Wing News vs. The Davids

Thursday, July 1st, 2010

By “The Davids” what I mean in this case is Frum, although there are others. People who sell themselves as reformed or repentant conservatives, to other people who have no idea what a conservative really is and are never going to know. Conservatives who are “social moderates,” long to reach “across the aisle” — who voted for Barack Obama, not as a protest against the George W. Bush free-spending (heh!), but because “There’s Just Something About Him!”

It’s becoming a protracted back-and-forth. Miss out on this, and you miss a lot.

The conservatism I know is not a movement at all, nor is it a resistance. It is the ability to store and recall memories over the longer term, with a willingness to use it. It is the decent attention paid to history, when it tells us:

Charismatic people can make shitty bosses.

The people who live in a country don’t become wonderful people because of the laws passed in that country.

That government governs best which governs least.

An economy thrives when the conditions in which it operates involve certainty, and it withers in the face of excessive risk.

Decent wonderful people have stupid ideas pretty often.

In fact, it isn’t that rare an occurrence that a raging idiot has a unique idea that turns out to be the right one. (Therefore, when you hear of a new idea, discussing the attributes of the person who came up with it is a complete waste of time.)

When you raise taxes to fix a shitty economy, it doesn’t work.

People really need to experience success and failure as individuals. If consequences are equalized across a society, the passion dissipates, and work without passion is always an inferior effort.

There aren’t that many paychecks being signed by poor people.

People become naturally fractured and balkanized from each other when they speak different languages, profit from different advantages, or labor under unique burdens.

People don’t work hard to maintain assets that were given to them.

With apologies to our current President — or maybe, without ’em — there really isn’t any particular point at which you’ve made enough money.

Anyway. Brock, Brooks, Frum, Weigel — there’s just something about that name “David.” They get a business opportunity and suddenly, there’s an awakening. (Not with Weigel of course, he was busted in a scandal; not that he was fooling anybody.) Oh my! We have to do this one thing — elect Obama, pass ObamaCare, whatever. I’m still a conservative mind you! Although I’m ashamed at some of my fellow conservatives, because it’s true we’re all a bunch of bigots. Except me! But I’m still a conservative. Just a moderate one.

If conservatism was a movement, some of this would make sense…or might possibly make some sense.

But it isn’t. Conservatism, boiled down to its essentials, is an insistence that weighty decisions need to be based on reality, because reality is not relative. It rests on a certain foundation, and that foundation is a constant thing, laid from the cement of the laws of the universe. You don’t get to opt-out of it. So-and-so is funny, such-and-such is boring, this guy has a Nobel Prize, this guy is charismatic-or-whatever, he’s black, he’s gay, she’s a chick — these are distractions, and that is all they are.

They don’t change the outcome. Or maybe they do, but if they do then a wrong is being done. And it’s probably a great wrong, greater than other wrong it seeks to remedy.