This is 365. It is a victory for me. The oldest post, Define Poor was published January 6th, 2016; two days before the apocalypse. Angry Creamsicle stole HRH Queen Billary’s rightful seat at the Resolute Desk. The Champions of Democracy lost a major battle in their civil war against PEEOTUS.
It is 2024-11-18 as I began writing this post. My goal for over a decade has been to publish a year’s worth of posts. That way my non-paying readers could read one post per day for a year. This is 365 and marks achievement of that goal. Meanwhile the war against Trump Brulée rages on. In eight years the Champions of Democracy threw every attack in their quiver against Twitler and lost.
My words witnessed the erectile dysfunction of the Champions of Democracy and the rise of a new era in our nation’s history. The old guard needs little blue pills to get into fighting shape. Those days, when we could accuse an enemy of mortal sin and it would stick went the way of our nocturnal prowess. Our envisioned Social Democracy paradise is dying after over a century of dominance.
BOOM! Boomer
Why is it dying? Isn’t Social Democracy the future? Government reigning in the excesses of uncontrolled capitalism with its cancerous privilege and -ism sickening us? Uncle Sam ensuring equity and equality of outcome for everyone? Our benevolent Dear Leader providing for those less fortunate like a good Daddy should?
It’s dying because the utopian fantasies of the Champions of Democracy don’t scale. Before Uncle Sam took over local churches and community organizations looked after the less fortunate. With fifty states and over 90 million people in 1910 the outcomes ran the gamut. It wasn’t equitable or equal. So the Champions of Democracy pushed local control to the fringes.
The empire is also dying because the emotional core of the Champions of Democracy was (is) hate. The Communist Manifesto was published in 1848. It reads like an angry wife complaining about her drunk, useless husband. 126 years of influence/dominance on the political landscape. 75 years since 毛澤東 overthrew the Nationalist government of China. The age of dominance for Maoism ended 2024-11-07.
Addicted to Outrage
I hear you. That horrible demon Fanta Fascist is the epitome of hate. His MAGA brand is evil to the core. He is a rapist, convicted felon, election thief, liar, and Russian saboteur. I write lies in this space for fun and profit. I can tell who is honest and who is not. The Champions of Democracy claim that I and Orange Menace are the cause of every misery. It is such a big lie.
The uncomfortable truth is that the results of over a century of efforts to Make America MAoist again have failed. We must guarantee equality of outcome to achieve their equitable vision. We pour trillions into resource dumps to the needy both here and abroad to spend our way to wealth redistribution. Result? Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
Who got more equal? Strangely, politicians we elected on the promise to fulfill the vision of MAMA left office obscenely wealthy. Bureaucrats earning a modest civil service salary had an odd ability to pick winners on the stock market, making them wealthy. Where MAMA loyalists were in power drug addiction ran rampant. Some hope and change.
Own Nothing and Like It
So . . . what about those downtrodden deplorables crashed out on sidewalks? Meh. Are you buying the latest Apple Watch? No. You’ll lose face if you don’t. Besides, nobody cares about those people. You got any black raspberry chocolate chip ice cream?
Blah, blah, blah, whatever. My life on a numbered street in the capital of the south hasn’t changed. Salmon Voldemort won his first election the year I relaunched this blog. The Champions of Democracy promised me a pastoral paradise where I could indulge in my kinks and grievances. Kum-MAMA-lala would win and this old man would have no worries.
How about, no. I’m happy Cheetolini won. This post is an achievement unlocked. I’m good though I get no help from Pimp Daddy Unka Same and his concubine Kum-MAMA-lala. I haven’t worked in six months yet my bills are paid. The losses I suffered last spring from a blood-sugar spiked memory collapse are coming back to me. I own things and I like that very much.
This is Sixty Something
I have a friend who wishes it was 1510. Everything that has happened after 1517 has been shit. Sixty five happened for me last month. My Champion of Democracy friends are sure that these are the end times. Yah. Their dynasty is dying.
What hasn’t died yet for me are the quarterly feast and famine cycles I suffer from. I have a honeymoon phase where mania starts building a phantasmagorical castle of utopian dreams I can accomplish in a couple days. Those are some good days. Then the normal pressures of first-world life begin to erode the fairy dust foundations of this fantasy castle. The weight of the world collapses this dreamy vision.
The next phase is anxiety. I fear disaster. I’ll lose everything. My new home will be under a highway bridge. My life’s possessions contained in a shopping cart. This blog will morph into words written on wind and water. It will be a fate worse than death. My anxiety has lied to me for over sixty years.
Today is a Good Day
I don’t look fondly at 1510 or even 2023. Where my friend is attached to the past and greets each day regretting tomorrow, I greet the sunrise with hope. These six decades have been tough. My quarterly cycle of feast and famine is challenging. What’s encouraging is that through each cycle I’m able to improve things.
Last spring I totaled my car. My insurance paid out enough money to get a late model Mazda SUV. I leveled up. Work? Not since the wreck. Been living on savings for over half a year. The shopping cart of my nightmares is rusting in the alley behind my house.
Funny thing about my life and other writers. We won’t succeed by staying attached to safety. The road to success is an abyss where convention says our future is a fate worse than death. The consensus is that Cheeze Wiz will reopen Manzanar and build crematorium ovens to eliminate dissident writers. Failure is our likely future.
And Then Things Work Out
Yes, there is a lot of failure in choosing to succeed as a writer or other creative. Most people who choose this career don’t make it. They give up writing or make it a hobby and get a real job. To succeed though, requires total commitment. We who do this have to accept the risk and press on.
What about me? I did the convention things. I had a career as an IT specialist for twenty years. I’m divorced with an adult son. We had the nice apartment and two cars. I’ve lost everything and built it back multiple times. Convention says that I should retire, collect social security, and start the countdown to my last address at 6th & Green. I say, “How about, no.”
For over forty years each time I think it’s time to stick a fork in me because I am done that thought turns out to be wrong. Things work out for me. The worst isn’t as bad as I feared. Nothing left to lose turns out to be ok.
A Real Writer Doesn’t Know Where the Cheese Is
These are not my words but they resonate: “I don’t know where my next income is coming from. The reply, ‘so you are a real writer.” Eight years ago I asked, “what defines poor.” There are four packets of stone ground coarse grits in my freezer from Anson Mills that cost what I spend for a week’s worth of groceries. I live in a small, two bedroom cottage across from the city dump. I have a modest tech stack that includes a gaming system. My car is over a decade old. By first world standards I am on the cusp between working class and poor.
Shredded cheese is in my fridge. Maybe I’m not a real writer. Though . . . this is 365. At approximately 1500 words per post I’ve written 547,500 words in eight years. That’s pretty real. The stone engraved with, “you could be better” is always there. Someone of my followers will throw it at me hoping to injure me.
If the threat of that stone were enough to stop me then I’m not sure I am a real writer. Last thing. World of Webb is a place where the words are radically free. Alex Jones and Babylon Bee free. I knew when I started this blog I’d publish words which would get me shunned by the Champions of Democracy. The Woke True Folk would shout at me and mayhaps try to make me invisible. Whatever. I’m here, still writing, an old man with age appropriate problems.
Up Next
Two things. I recently learned that a road block to my returning to work is likely to be removed. I’m still a writer who has to split his life between the normies who worry about cheese and the real writers. Next, I’m stepping further away from complaining about the news to focus on the novel embedded here, “Inger’s Finger.” That’s the next goal for this space.
If you read all the way to the bottom of this post, thank you. Please keep reading and I’ll try to make “Inger’s Finger” worth your time.