Did I Just Have Coronavirus?

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I would wake up in the middle of a cold far-north November night with chattering teeth, naked from head to toe but for thin underclothes.  Then I would discover that I had shivered quilt, blankets, and sheets off in a mass, every one, onto the floor.  By morning I was perhaps able to ease down the stairs to the breakfast room: a very important journey, because breakfast was guaranteed in my rent and was the day’s only full meal.  During the few daylight hours preceding another night of horrors, I typically dragged myself huddled up to the local library to do a bit of research and writing.  Darkness was falling by about four in the afternoon.  If I could find a few pence knocking around in my pocket, I might open up a can of macaroni and eat it cold; and if I was lucky, I didn’t throw it all up before bedtime.

That was 1981, as I recall, and I was trying to survive a few months in Wexford, Ireland, during a postal strike that separated me from the monthly checks I had arranged to receive from home.  In my compromised physical condition, I contracted a strain of flu that left several local people in the cemetery.  I was in my twenties and, apparently, capable of mounting a better resistance.  That didn’t keep me from losing somewhere between a quarter and a third of my original body weight (none too hefty at around 160 lbs.).  When my sister finally appeared at Christmas with money and a ticket to get me back to the States, she insists she only recognized me because I waved at her in an empty Limerick bus station.

The silver lining of that ordeal was that I’ve never really suffered from the flu since.  For all I know, I’ve never had another case of it.  More likely, I have been infected occasionally but fought off serious complications because of a degree of acquired immunity.  What I’ve read about influenza suggests that such partial immunity is not an infrequent result of exposure.

My enduring resistance is the more remarkable to me in that I proceeded to log about thirty-five years (depending on how you count seasons of semi-employment) as a teacher.  I was constantly moving about in narrow halls that grew thickly congested every time the clock’s minute-hand touched 10 (releasing one class in time for the next one to convene on the hour).  Young people who gave no mind to sleeping at night and who immersed themselves in a dense soup of contagion flowing from classroom to commons to gym to bistro to bar were forever depositing the disiecta membra of their respiratory systems in mid-air.  On top of that, Mother Nature didn’t endow me with a stentorian tongue of brass… so at the beginning of every semester, and almost every work week (for my weekends seldom required a raised voice), my vocal cords would usually become a bit over-stressed and leave me for a day or two with a mild soar throat.  I also have more than my fair share of allergies: mold gets me every time.

So… I ought to have been a walking Petrie dish for every respiratory problem known to humankind.  Instead, over the years that followed my reluctant “immunization”, I probably logged no more sick days than I might count on one hand.  Though I fulfilled my classroom duties at scarcely more than a whisper sometimes, I just about always got by.  In fact, the one case of stay-at-home illness I recall involved food poisoning.

And, by the way, I‘ve never had a flu shot.  You could say that I have a “trust issue” with the med/pharma complex, especially when its members nanny-nag us univocally with vague threats that government compulsion awaits in the near future if we don’t take our nice mercury-laced injection.

Would someone like me know if he’d just suffered a little bout of Coronavirus—someone, I mean, who works out hard for an hour every day and who has demonstrated a resistance to flu-like diseases (after being almost killed by one)?  I’ve tried researching relevant facts on the Internet: what are the initial symptoms, how long do they persist, what type of headache occurs, do mild or asymptomatic cases leave any distinct footprint at all?  The Internet just plays rope-a-dope with me, when it’s working (and the home-bound tens of millions seem be patronizing many of the same websites, which are crashing by the dozen).  Coronavirus turns out to be almost anything you want it to be—except always, always deadly serious.  No, don’t take it lightly!  But you may not know that you have it… or you may mistake it for a cold.  Like Macavity the Mystery Cat, it shifts shapes, melts into walls, and grins from a tree just when you think your fingers are closing on its neck.

I am, in fact, being fully serious.  I am seriously annoyed that something possessing the potential of being so serious proves virtually unidentifiable yet brings every facet of our lives to a halt.  I had a very odd headache last Monday.  I woke up with it, and it lingered most of the day, worsening through the afternoon but vanishing—mercifully—after supper.  It encased my outer skull in a hot, throbbing ring: it didn’t settle heavily over my brow like a sinus headache, pulse in my temples like a tension headache, or explode like a firecracker from my pituitary like the reaction I registered to a single dose of Flomax earlier this month.  Frankly, it made me remember in the dimmest terms what I could recall of… let us call it (in vile racist terms) Wexford Flu.  In a couple of brief instances, I wanted to vomit; yet that’s a natural response to any headache strong enough to leave you feeling a bit dizzy.

Sore throat, coughing, and sneezing?  Well, the pollen has just arrived in full force throughout North Georgia.  There’s certainly enough of it to start one’s nose running, and to create overnight drainage down the throat into the lungs that stirs up an early-morning hack or two.  Every puddle along our half-mile driveway has been dyed bright yellow as the forest promiscuously breeds (and there are many such puddles: the rain has fallen at record pace since last September, when the Weather Channel kept insisting that Climate Change had plunged us into a deadly drought).  Could my passing discomfort be a response to this cocktail of vernal pollinators?  Or is it… aren’t these the symptoms of Coronavirus?  Strange, that I haven’t really been very stopped up since last Monday.

Speaking of puddles… what about West Nile Virus?  (Again, pardon the racism—I just can’t seem to help myself.)  The mosquitoes poured out of incubation almost as soon as our windshields turned lime-green.  Some people die of West Nile, actually.  Shouldn’t we keep the children indoors until the next Climate Change drought strangles the insect population?

Okay, so I’m being facetious and sarcastic now.  Who wouldn’t be?  It’s a way of handling frustration—of mitigating anger.  Damn it, I’m 66 years old, retired to 25 rural acres that I might leave twice a week (church on Sunday, Walmart on Monday).  I already “self-quarantine”: if I’d been in Ireland a millennium ago, I would have made an ideal monk on Skellig Michael.  What am I supposed to do, then, with that strange headache and a brief sore throat?  Rush to the doctor and demand Coronavirus testing?  Why?  So that I may go back into self-quarantine if the results are positive?  I live in self-quarantine!  Why would I risk genuine infection, in case I actually had nothing but an allergic reaction, by entering a waiting room full of people equally convinced that they are blossoming CV-19 victims?  Or if they’re clean but I’m infected, how many of them die because I walked through the room to check in?

Am I not taking this seriously enough?  Or am I taking it too seriously?  Taking what seriously?  What if I carry an as yet unknown and unnamed virus?  What if I’m dooming dozens to an early grave every time I buy milk?

What if that bloody Flomax pill which almost killed me, and which millions of other men are taking, was concocted of contaminated (or deliberately poisoned) Chinese ingredients?  My headache appeared exactly two weeks after my first brief venture into prescription drugs since a Z-pack ten years ago.  Two weeks: that’s the publicized incubation period of Coronavirus… isn’t it?  Has the PRC oligarchs been releasing trial balloons of chemical warfare into our populace ever since we broke their hearts by not electing Hillary? Or have such black-ops war games been ongoing ever since we delivered the pharmaceutical industry’s assembly line to their shores?  Is the present panic a dress rehearsal for checkmate in three moves?

Am I sounding more paranoid than sarcastic now?  But how am I supposed to sound?  When the “pandemic” is such an existential threat that martial law has essentially been declared in many states and municipalities (including my hometown of Fort Worth, where a judge has rescinded private ownership of property)—but when our economy’s saturation in H1-B visa-holders and its invasion by hordes on our southern border are still not considered a “serious” crisis—why should I believe anything I hear from anyone in authority?  When—but for Louie Gohmert—the House majority leader would have sent to the Senate a bill she had completely rewritten after ramrodding its initial passage through on “getaway day”, why would I assume that my “leaders” are not playing games with me?

It’s a virus, all right.  Washington Virus.  And I’ve been infected so many times that my immune system has shifted into hyper-drive.  Believe no one.  Don’t trust, and don’t try to verify.  Verification is impossible: truth and falsehood have fused like the bright yellow pollen and the mud in my driveway’s potholes. Always assume, as did the veterans of Solzhenitsyn’s goulags, that everyone wants to fleece you—that “they” want you out of the way. And if exercises in futility amuse you, try to figure out who “they” really are.

What a life.  What a world.

Fear: Age’s Constant Bedfellow

For the most part, I’ve learned to settle Fear down as I prepare for bed.  She’s always there under the blanket beside me, but I can usually manage to dope her up well enough that I avoid insomnia.  Melatonin doesn’t particularly help, since it assists a good sleep only after one drops off.  My evening meditation probably helps a little, since it forces things to withdraw into perspective.  I reiterate my devotion to the God of transcending goodness who has no terminal objectives in this world—the God who doesn’t go crazy if every disease isn’t cured, every child fed, and every weather event mellowed out; the God for whom we do not HAVE to accomplish this, that, or the other, or all is lost; the true God.  He doesn’t tell me that none of my family will die tomorrow, as some people claim of their supernatural wizard; but He assures me that what is truly alive in us doesn’t die when our bodies wear out amid the swirl of “things that must be done”.

Still, the compromise with Fear is none too stable.  I’m not a mystic living on a Himalayan mountaintop: I’m an aging man nearing retirement with a son trying to start a career a thousand miles away.  I worry about closing down my 501c3, which hasn’t enough money to operate and has become a millstone about my neck: I worry because the government documents necessary to terminate it seem to shift with each website I visit, and because I can’t afford a lawyer.  I worry because the home my wife and I are building four states away has veered way outside its budget thanks to county regulations and is way behind schedule thanks to incompetent, uninterested employees at Georgia Power.  I worry that the maneuvers I had to make in order to extract my son’s inherited investments from the corporations selected by his uncle may involve all kinds of penalty; and I worry that the kid can’t seem to sell an old car in Denver because local government requires so much paperwork and so many fees to produce a Colorado title in his name.  I don’t really worry about Social Security.  I’ve long since reconciled myself to the probability that nothing will remain for me there in a few short years.

One way and another, it strikes me that government at some level underlies virtually all of my worries.  It’s intractable, arbitrary, incomprehensible, and very jealous of the power it enjoys over us.  I hate living like a medieval peasant farmer just waiting to see what Visigoth or baron will come riding out of the forest next—for whether he speaks my language or some alien tongue, he’ll be waving a sword, and he’ll want my cow.

I’m a white male.  I’m one of those who is supposed to have been born and raised in coddling privilege.  I wonder if the incendiary Marxist/feminist professors who would like to see my kind shipped out to death camps ever see Fear sharing their bed when they gripe about my taxes not paying for their pills and condoms.  They don’t have children, so there’s no source of worry from that quarter.  They have cushy tenured jobs, so they seldom worry about next year’s contract; and if they participate in any extra-curricular organization, you can bet that it’s well funded and has a fleet of attorneys on staff.  They don’t live on my planet.

Others who hate “my kind” because they see me as tapping into what’s rightfully theirs… do they have to lull Fear to sleep the day before they collect a government check?  Do they worry that they may not have enough weed in the cookie jar to get through the week?  If they don’t even have a driver’s license—and if their city forbids law enforcement from “harassing” them—then I don’t suppose they would fret over buying or selling a car without papers.

Being “privileged” sure does wear a man down.  I don’t think I can stand the “royal treatment” much longer.  My strange bedfellow is a light sleeper.

No, Technology Has NOT Made Life Better (If You’re Old Enough to Remember the Better Alternative)

The Affordable Care Act was supposed to make medical records readily transferable from one treatment venue to another. Push a button… and the ER uploads the files from your GP’s office. In practice, learning the software is a nightmare for medical personnel, amending and updating it is a hemorrhage within hospital budgets that cannot be stanched, protocol turns out frequently to require the same old paperwork reproduced now from computer files, and the origin of critical errors is often almost impossible to trace. Time and money saved? Efficiency enhanced? What world are you living in?

One is now vigorously urged to liberate one’s investment accounts from paper. Quarterly reports are posted online: don’t forget your password! And just in case the power grid should go down for any reason, you’d better print out a copy of crucial data, or there might be no record at all of your life savings! I’ve been very happy with my TD Ameritrade account… for the most part. But when the lion’s share of my portfolio was shifted to a companion-operation called Amerivest, I continually had trouble finding my money online. I couldn’t remember that I was supposed to log in with the Amerivest username at the Ameritrade log-in box: there was no separate box for the separate entity. Such a simple conflation of procedures apparently needed no explanation to the site’s designers; but to me, whose typical day does not allow time for checking in, the “skipped step” is a perpetual stumbling block. Now that I’ve actually written a few words about it, I’m sure to remember the way in… but how many other such crucial protocols are easily misplaced or obscured because technicians don’t think like ordinary people? The minutes or hours of panic that result may add up to months or years subtracted from one’s time on earth, since our hearts are still flesh and blood.

Your job requires you to employ a certain software program—but the program’s designers have so overloaded it with firewalls and safeguards over the years that it runs like cold molasses when it runs at all. So your organization decides to shift to a different software provider and orders you to learn completely new protocols. Yet the shift will not occur for several months; so the valuable time you spend listening to software gurus explain vital details (as well as dozens and dozens of functions of utterly no interest to you or relevance to your personal tasks) will prove wholly wasted, since you will have forgotten everything when—six months from now—you need to recall it. In the meantime, you do your job a little less well thanks to all the distraction, and the raises that might have helped you keep pace with inflation are poured, instead, into the handsome salaries needed to attract more high-tech gurus to maintain an ever more complicated network.

Where in all this chaos do we find a poster-child for efficiency and competence?

A government mandate requires that you now integrate a, b, and c into your normal professional routine. A government functionary chides you for not fully overhauling your routine in a timely fashion so as to front-and-center a, b, and c. You ask that a, b, and c be settled into a certain available free space… but no, “studies have shown” that a, b, and c are most effective when everything else is organized around them. So, essentially, your thirty years of experience doing what you do must be jettisoned, and you must follow in the footsteps of every other tyro who serves a remote, faceless bureaucracy of power-brokers blissfully unfamiliar with what you do. The “studies” show that the new program of indoctrination indoctrinates better if the surrounding program in which it’s delivered does little but echo its messages. Well, duh.

Yeah, duh. Also know as “efficiency” these days.

Like it? You like this brave new world? You like what’s it’s doing to your nerves—how it bends to your will and rushes in to assist you in tasks that you have identified as important?

My New Year’s resolution to drop f-bombs from my private vocabulary has been bombed to smithereens… and we’re not yet to February! I never used to let loose with anything worse than “damn” and “hell”: now I swear like a sailor as e-life tells me daily, in a thousand subtle ways, that I don’t exist, that my opinions don’t matter, that my contribution isn’t recognized or wanted, and that the fruits of my labor no longer exist. I still run a clean act in public… but secretly, I’m smoldering all the time. It’s the way we’re over-using and abusing all this damn “smart” technology. I’ll leave it at that.

What’s to Celebrate, About THAT President or THIS One?

I think I do a pretty good job of staying away from politics in discussions among mixed company.  If I can do it, why can’t others?  Why do I have to open the mandatory e-mail in my workplace and find a missive congratulating Barack Obama on a job well done?  There was no analagous message wishing luck to Donald Trump.  When I reflect that a few responsible people have been trying over the past decade to get Congress to remedy our exposure to Electro-Magnetic Pulse events with no success whatever at the federal level, and that a single such event could kill 300 million Americans within a year, my blood boils.  Granted, George Bush II was on watch when the alert was first raised: his administration led the charge to do nothing (being preoccupied, apparently, with monitoring all of our private communications).  Under Obama, however, not only has understanding of the impending threat deepened and been more broadly disseminated (no thanks to the mainstream media); the man has actually equipped Iran–one of the two most likely perps of an EMP attack in the near future, based on our observation of missile-development programs–to become an active threat.  Meanwhile, he’s wasted months and months of precious time and treasure-loads of precious resources ginning up concern about climate change.  Manhattan may be under water in 2075!  That’s obviously a far greater issue than the death by thirst, starvation, hypothermia, and rioting of nine out of every ten citizens, possibly by 2020.

A job well done… really?  Define “job”, please.

Contrarily, newscasters on all the FOX sister-stations produce queues of talking heads communicating the hope of “ordinary Americans” that President Trump will “make their lives better”.  The problem, it seems to me (as an American and a Constitutionalist), is that one man should have so much power as to be able to make our lives better or worse.  I don’t want anyone making my life better.  I want bureaucracies everywhere to get their fingers the hell out of my life, so that I may make it better if I have the energy or worse if I commit errors rich in good life lessons.  I want to be treated as an adult instead of a child; I don’t want a new daddy-figure who artificially supplies work for me instead of intrusively choosing my diet for me.

A student told me yesterday that you can’t collect water off your roof in these parts for filtering and drinking.  He said that it’s illegal.  A little research suggests that he was wrong in terms of state law.  Nevertheless, he may be right in terms of certain municipalities and subdivisions, which have all kinds of patently unconstitutional restrictions on what one may do.  Government entities on both the micro- and the macro-level are busily gnawing into our basic freedoms.  If you look hard for them (i.e., outside the mainstream media), stories are superabundant about the Bureau of Land Management telling a rancher that he can’t water his cows because of a rat or an owl.  My brother-in-law claims that the county in which I hope to build a retirement home will require me to have an outlet capable of servicing an electric car, even though I have no intent of ever owning such a car.  (I may drive ten miles, perhaps, in a month.)  All of these “do-gooders” are stifling the very resourcefulness and independence that will be needed to confront… oh, say, a major EMP event.  And if such an occurrence were to happen naturally (as it certainly will within a few decades–lead-pipe cinch), then it might ultimately wipe out the human race.  In the meantime, though, our keepers will have nudged us benignly toward vehicles that don’t directly use fossil fuels… and those marginalized voices who protest, like Dinesh D’Souza (a man of color, by the way), will find themselves not-so-benignly doing significant prison time on some trumped-up charge relating to improper completion of complex paper work.

I don’t see the Trump Administration flashing any signs that it will reverse the “job well done” by Barack Obama in these areas.  Trump isn’t abolishing any of the more oppressive and dictatorial departments: he’s just replacing their directors with his partisans.  So… my assessment is that you’re pretty much on your own.  Chacun pour soi.  Filter your own water without telling anyone, grow your own garden and hope that ATF’s drones don’t misidentify it as a marijuana plantation… and, in general, put your hope in your own two hands.  Get over the celebrations: there’s nothing to celebrate here.

Dirty Air Doesn’t Mean the Climate’s Changing

Dr. Wolfgang Thune is a highly reputed German meteorologist with a background (so I gather) in academia as well as in broadcasting.  He has published several articles and books exploding the absurd claims of the “climate change” cult.  I have read a few of these through links posted at Peter Helmes’ site, Die Deutsche Konservativen.  Now, neither my German nor my scientific training is sufficient to qualify me as more than a very clumsy reader of the Doctor’s work… but the modicum of it seemingly within my reach is quite thought-provoking.  I’ve just finished wading through an interview whose subject is, naturally, climate-change hysteria.  It’s posted at the Helmes site, if you think your German is up to the task.

A few tidbits that came in low enough to hit me between the eyes: carbon dioxide is a mere .038% of Earth’s atmosphere; and of that minuscule amount, 96% is naturally produced.

Plants need carbon dioxide to perform photosynthesis (yeah… I knew that!); so if we’re concerned about our CO2 levels, why don’t we plant more trees?  Why should we instead engage in CO2-suppressing crusades that will suffocate the planet’s vegetal inhabitants?

Earth is NOT analogous to a greenhouse.  She doesn’t have a glass ceiling.  Gasses escape from her atmosphere all the time (which, in the long run, poses its own life-threatening scenario… but that’s another story).

Carbon dioxide absorbs solar radiation only at a very few wavelengths (I seem to recollect Thune’s mentioning three).  That’s like putting three “stickies” on you living-room window and claiming that they keep the morning light from shining through.  (Actually, the stickies would have to be almost microscopic.)

There are people dropping like flies of heart and lung disease in Beijing, and I hear that Tokyo isn’t much better.  When I briefly lived in Dublin, Ireland, about thirty years ago, the coal smoke was so bad that I cut my stay short due to chronic respiratory problems.  Our air isn’t clean.  In many more urbanized locales, it positively stinks.

To address such problems by screaming, “Climate change!” in Chicken Little fashion, however–and even by clamoring for “deniers” to be imprisoned or executed, in Josef Stalin fashion–bespeaks a sickness of the mind at least as lethal as anything currently stalking our lungs.  We can’t solve problems if we don’t correctly name them.  The problem with our fume-rich lower atmosphere isn’t that polar bears might take up residence in Nome dumpsters or that New York might be turned into Venice: it’s that we’re breathing toxic crap.  Magnifying the issue to resemble the approach of a killer asteroid is merely a bid by centralized authority to acquire yet more control over our private lives.

More bureaucracy doesn’t produce cleaner air (just ask the Chinese).  Our entire energy-dependent way of life possesses a wide array of liabilities… ever hear of an EMP?.  We need to step back and study the mess we’ve created with calm reason rather than swarming deliriously after charismatic, power-hungry leaders like the mad devotees of Dionysus.

Trying to Understand Chinese Culture

I don’t… but I’m trying.

One thing I’ve been doing a lot over the past year is watching Chinese movies available on Netflix.  Since I like legend, myth, epic, and all that, I often go for the flicks that are set a thousand years ago; and, of course, since no film about the past is ever really about the past, I’m fascinated by Kurosawa’s “seven samurai” paradigm which gave our Westerns The Magnificent Seven and has given Chinese producers, apparently, abundant ways to fantasize about a few dedicated souls fighting off armies of bullies.  I mean, if you live under constant censorship and the imminent threat of being “invited for tea” at the police station, you obviously have to address the subject of tyranny with caution.  Staging a clash between Martial-Arts Loner and All the Emperor’s Men is one way to keep your hands clean.

Yet these movies tend to degenerate into special-effects extravaganzas where combatants spring fifty feet into the air while twirling the Sword of Destiny that beats away all of eighty thousand arrows.  Even in the worst Hollywood B-Westerns, the most overloaded six-shooter only carries eleven or twelve shots.

There’s plenty of matter to revisit later in this topic.  The pilot of a TV serial I watched last night is what’s on my mind at the moment.  I discovered belatedly that CSIC is actually produced in Taiwan–which isn’t quite the same thing as mainland China, whatever the PRC insists on the subject.  Immediately of note is how the CSI serials in the US have been ripped off without any pretense of concealment.  (Well, it’s only fair turn-around after the way everyone ripped off Kurosawa: even Fistful of Dollars patently plagiarized Yojimbo).  The techie setting, the mock-digital overlays, the rhythm of the editing… pure rip-off.

The characters, interestingly, are indeed nerdy but rather more “teen” and frivolous than their American counterparts, like a fashion show in a college computer lab.  The only occasions when their winsome flippancy yields to passion involve such social naughtiness as consuming alcohol, especially before driving.  All of the Puritanical fury infused into our nation’s anti-gun crusades seems to be expended (in this episode, at least) upon cases of DWI (“drunk while intoxicated”, as we say down South).  The message is very powerfully projected that cops are your friends if you’re a law-abiding citizen.  They don’t take bribes, they bristle at the hint of bending rules to favor the privileged, they release a slavering rage upon nightclub owners who allow patrons to exit in a pasted condition, and they offer the liberation of a clean conscience to culprits in need of confession.  They’re a cross between Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman and Father Brown… with a dash of Miley Cyrus.

Maybe Taiwan and the PRC do have something in common, after all.  I’ve noticed this same effort to sanitize “your local policeman” in Jackie Chan’s films for his admiring audience of Communist Party hacks.  State official: selfless, devoted servant of virtue; money-making entrepreneur: unsavory, unprincipled pimp.  All black and white–no gray on either side.

And yet, I hear that want-ads for plum positions in China often stipulate that the applicant must be able to hold his liquor, and that girls post cards on matchmakers’ bulletin boards expressing their desire for a Mercedes and an upscale apartment.  On either side of the Formosa Strait, contemporary life doesn’t really sound like what you see on Netflix.  Seems that the Chinese, even when they try to portray survival on the streets, are still leaping fifty feet in the air and twirling the Sword of Destiny.

The Robot and the Helot: Neither Side Gets It

I read a story today about a Canadian study that found living in close proximity to heavy traffic bad for your health.  The toxic emissions and stirred dust were not the only suspected culprits.  Interestingly, noise was believed to be a major factor in (for instance) the relatively high incidence of dementia among those dwelling less than 70 meters from traffic arteries.  Now, 70 meters is about the length of a football field!  Many of us live much closer than that to constant roar and rumble.  It’s a sad discovery… or a disquieting theory, if you prefer; but it also makes me smile.  I’m not amused because an inner sadist rules my tastes, but only because I’ve been warning people about this sort of thing all my life–admittedly, on the basis of mere intuition.  I never had a study behind me before.  And there also appears to be no corroborative study behind this one.  Why not?

Well, because it’s just junk science, some would say.  The academics are at it again, trying to drum up alarm against the innovative, high-tech free market that has driven unimaginable economic growth around the planet for two centuries and virtually eradicated poverty in First World societies.  Or… it might also be that the corporations and their government mouthpieces responsible for most grants to academic researchers would never hear of anyone cracking the lid on such a Pandora’s Box–not on their dime!

Conservatives–or people who style themselves conservative–need to get their act together.  Driving peace and quiet out of our communities was never a conservative undertaking: it was always definitively subversive to the established, traditional way of life.  To argue that mankind must adapt to the fits and belches of mechanization, even though machines were supposed to improve life for mankind, is to be a marketplace progressive–an advocate of any product or sales strategy that produces material wealth.  This vector is soon (as in about three decades) going to lead us straight to the point where we fuse with robotic technology.  Would anyone like to explain to me how such a trajectory may be described as conservative?

But the other side appears to be just as clueless.  I recently finished watching a Netflix documentary titled Killswitch about the all-too-effective efforts of big government and its private-sector cronies to suppress the free and open circulation of information.  The case is quintessentially libertarian; and, except for the side of it which pertains narrowly to national security (e.g., keeping a secret nuclear deterrent under wraps so that bad guys won’t labor on developing the next generation of horror), I’m entirely on board with the argument.  But why does every free-speech champion in the flick believe that more government offers an answer?  Just because suppression often begins in a private-sector, mega-corporation lust to maximize profits doesn’t mean that the public sector is our savior by default.  On the contrary, the hard fact that government hacks are always up for sale is what confers upon businesses the power to suppress.

I don’t know what the ultimate answer might be, or if it exists… perhaps some genuine and informed kind of populism: but its thrust must be to insist that regulators back off rather than that they pile on with more “well-intended” regulation.

The documentary’s blindness to this most basic of facts made me want to chuck my TV out into one of those busy streets around my house.  I could claim dementia as my defense.

I Hate Being “Protected”

My brother-in-law warned me that building a house in North Georgia is likely to be an expensive proposition, thanks to all the tests and inspections required by county building codes.  One of my brilliant ideas as I cast about for how to design the place was to minimize windows on the first floor and keep them small and high.  I’ve been burglarized before: it’s not a pleasant experience.  A multi-story house could be relatively economical since rooms built upon rooms make the most frugal use of construction materials–but such a dwelling would also reduce the surface area that offers easy access to casual break-ins.  Just keep those first-floor windows as inconvenient as possible for intruding bodies!

Now I’m wondering if I won’t have to scrap that part of the design–because I’m pretty sure that the county incarnation of Big Brother will want us to be able to escape the house readily in the event of fire.  I’m more worried about uninvited guests coming in than I am about the occupants finding a quick way out.  (I’ll have a basement, and smoke doesn’t travel downward.)  Nevertheless, I would lay even money that the code will preempt my personal concerns with the all-foreseeing mandate of an all-knowing bureaucracy.  I’m not handy enough to build a house on my own, and any construction crew will be forced to follow regulations; so they have me.

Now, I can always shutter points of extreme exposure or otherwise short-circuit the code once I’m in the house.  But my point in making today’s observation is just this: do-gooders often do more harm than “bad agents” when they have insufficient evidence and, at the same time, arrogantly suppose themselves to be experts.  You can see this playing out at every level of government from the very local to the international.  Somehow, the arrogant intruders are eligible for unlimited forgiveness because they have pure motives.  (I’m not unaware that many of them have very venal motives, by the way; a lot of petty inspectors and vendors of needless accessories make bundles of money off of stuff like building codes, thanks to their unions’ generous donations to certain campaign coffers.  Yet let’s say, for the sake of argument, that the motives are pure.)

I don’t like such people.  Go ahead and call me a hater: I hate such people.  I hate people who grind you under their boots in order to “do good” for you–in order to save you from your own stupid self.  I hate ’em–I won’t pretend otherwise.  They’re not nice human beings.  They’re imperious and self-righteous.  Their public-spiritedness is a mere pose upon which they greatly pride themselves, like an admiral in full uniform primping before a mirror.  If we wretched imbeciles didn’t exist, they’d have to invent us.  They need someone to “save”… and you and I will do just fine.

To hell with that.