The Counterfeiting Machine

Imagine if I had a machine that could counterfeit money. I would be at quite an advantage in the marketplace. Imagine that I shared this funny money with my friends, which of course includes you, dear reader. We would go around spending our newly made cash on all of the finest things this world has to offer. Would it be fair to all of those people who don't have such a machine? Of course not. Not only are we getting rich without producing anything or rendering any services to anyone, we are actually stealing from everyone. As we buy more and more, prices are bid up and up. The law of supply & demand tells us that as money increases relative to the amount of goods and services there are to pay for, prices MUST go up. The money in everyone else's checking account can't buy as much today as it did yesterday because of our counterfeit spending spree. But who cares? They're all suckers.

Of course, if we did this we would likely be caught pretty quickly. People who spend wantonly and have no ostensible income tend to attract the attention of the Feds. We would have to be sneakier. I actually know about some people at a corporation who do it pretty well and no one seems to notice. They claim it's perfectly legal, but it doesn't sound legal. This corporation has a friend with a printing press who they have hired to help with investments. But they don't just ask the guy to print them up money. That would be flagrantly counterfeiting. No, they are much more clever than that.

The corporation issues bonds, which are bought up by certain investment firms, most notably Goldman Sachs. Goldman Sachs then turns around and puts the bonds back up for sale at a higher price in order to make a profit. But who in their right mind would pay the higher price instead of the original market price? A man with a counterfeiting machine, that's who. The counterfeiter prints up some cash and hands it over to the investment bankers. Then the man with the machine allows the bonds to mature. Once they have matured, he cashes them in and uses the money to cover his "expenses". And here's the best part. Any profit above expenses that the counterfeiter makes is returned to the original corporation which is his employer.

These people have all gotten insanely rich off of this scheme. They are some of the wealthiest people to have ever lived on this planet. I am not one to begrudge someone the accumulation of vast amounts of wealth. If you get rich by selling me something I want/need, good for you. If you never lifted a finger in your life and inherited an obscene fortune, I don't give a shit. It doesn't bother me. But I don't like being robbed. I don't like being made a sucker. Don't you think the government should do something about these swindlers? Don't you pay taxes in order to build prisons for people like these?

I'm sure, dear reader, you have realized by now that the mendacious corporation in the example *is* the government. The man with the money machine is the Federal Reserve, the central bank of the United States. Of course, the Fed doesn't actually need a printing machine. It just creates digital money out of thin air and transfers it to the likes of Goldman Sachs or the U.S. Treasury Department. And it's all legal because they write the laws. As these bastards spend their ill gotten fortunes, prices are bid up. Your money is worth less. We're all a bunch of suckers.

Freedom in Broad Ripple

We have to enjoy freedom everywhere we find it. In this world there are so many things of which it is impossible to be free. We cannot be free from scarcity. We all age and fall prey to various maladies. We all have both physical and intellectual limitations. Many of us (if not all of us) suffer from involuntary feelings for someone which are not reciprocated. We all must act in order to attempt to make each minute more satisfactory than the last. And then we all die. All of this would be depressing as shit if it wasn't for those wonderful pockets of freedom all around us.

I very recently moved to Broad Ripple and have spent most of my time here looking for these pockets (instead of looking for a job). Of course, not having a job means that I'm basically living in a giant bubble of freedom. From this vantage, it is the lack of freedom which appears in small pockets. But every once in awhile some small, seemingly inconsequential act will overwhelm my heart with an even greater love for life.

By late afternoon/early evening yesterday, I was feeling pretty damn good. I had been drinking Canadian whisky for a bit and now I knew that I must have pizza (By the way, desire for pizza (especially after drinking) is another thing we simply cannot be free from. It is an immutable law of the universe). I told my roommate that I had resolved to return to Bazbeaux, which is an excellent pizza joint named after a 15th century French jester. He recommended that I get the "Quattro Formaggio". It has romano, cheddar, ricotta, mozzarella (of course), provolone, bacon, and mushroom on it. I was sold.

I walked outside and was amazed at how cool the weather was. It felt so wonderful after the unbearably muggy/wet August we had just endured. "Maybe I should go to Flatwater instead and sit outside", I thought. But I dismissed this idea almost immediately. For one, when I'm alone, I don't want to sit at a table. I sit at the bar. This is how all solitary men should behave. And for two, the Quattro Formaggio was already calling to my soul. Destiny compelled me to "choose" Bazbeaux. So, I walked over to Westfield Boulevard and prepared to meet my fate.

I entered the pizza place and smoothly approached the counter. "For all they know, I'm completely sober", I thought. "Hi! Did you have a carryout?" the young woman behind the counter cheerfully asked. "Actually", I responded, "I need to order a pizza." "What kind would you like?" "A friend of mine recommended that I get the Quattro...something." Shit. Hopefully she'll assume I'm just an idiot and not drunk. "The Quattro Formaggio", she helpfully replied. "It's the first one on our menu. It's very popular." "That's what I want", I assured her. "Okay, would you like a beer while you wait?" Bless her soul! She began reciting the list of beers on tap and I chose a Heffenweizen.

She brought a glass out to me as I sat waiting on a bench. Between sips of that delicious beverage, I looked around and admired the ambience of the place. It has character. I felt the same way about the Broad Ripple Brew Pub which I had just visited for lunch. This is why I moved to the city. The very fact that there are so many more people here with more variations in tastes and preferences makes it a much more interesting place. There are more places to explore within walking distance of me now than there was in the entire small town that I grew up in. There is a lot of unique beauty to appreciate.

I wasn't even halfway through with my beer when the girl returned with my pizza. "Did you want to finish that before you go?", she asked. I lowered my voice and asked, "Can I get a to go cup?" She nodded as she checked over her shoulder to make sure no one was hearing our exchange. "Just come over to the bar." She took my glass and I followed her over to the bar. She poured the remaining beer into a styrofoam cup and then went to the tap and topped it off. Bless her soul indeed! This was an act of rebellion against the authorities who have determined that I should not be able to exit a pizza shop with an open beer in my hand.  It was beautiful.

I walked out of the restaurant and began my short trek back to my townhouse on College Avenue. The sun was shining and a cool breeze was blowing as I admiringly looked at the little canal that runs through my neighborhood. "This is freedom", I thought. There was a man and a woman up ahead of me on the sidewalk. The woman was pushing a stroller. The world is a beautiful place.

The Myth of (Political) Salvation

How can we dispel the myth of political salvation? How do we lay to rest that old canard that through democracy and representative government, humanity can be improved? How can it be shown that it is completely absurd to trust that a politician can make life on this earth easier to bear? Maybe it's not just political salvation that needs to be done away with, but salvation itself. The notion that we human beings are unnatural invaders of this planet, a parasite in need of reformation, permeates all of society. The Christians believe that most of us are Hell bound sinners. There seem to be plenty of Muslims who are happy to exterminate those they deem to be infidels. The environmentalists think of themselves as Earth's representatives against the exploitations of mankind. The United States government uses a seemingly endless supply of weapons in an attempt to mold the world into a "better" place.

Is there a god? Did he make a broken world? Are human beings a menace? Are we a disgrace to God and a threat to the planet on which we reside? This all seems silly to me. As I write this, I am drinking a vodka-tonic and listening to Rimsky-Korsakov. I can hear the bubbling of the olive oil in the pan of chicken I have baking in the oven. The central air unit is protecting me from the humidity of the day. There is no way to improve upon this scene. Some will say that if it were not for the government, if not for politicians, I would not have the electricity needed to power this little CD player, or my oven, or the very tablet I am composing this on. They will say that without the protection of the police, I would not be able to enjoy the relative safety of my little apartment. Without regulations, how could I trust the quality of my vodka or my chicken? Anyone who argues in this manner is arguing that coercive violence is the wellspring of my contentment. Are they correct? If so, put a political sign in your yard, slap a bumper sticker on your Buick, and get a tattoo of Bernie's spectacles.

But I believe in a different idea. I believe in liberty for the individual. I believe that it is mankind's nature to seek mutually beneficial trades. I believe that art, literature, and science thrive when and where the State is reduced. I believe that Ghandi was right when he advised that you should be the change in the world that you wish to see. I don't believe in a creator who would create sinners and then be offended by their sins. I don't believe that waging war will establish peace. I don't believe that voting for the least evil candidate will improve my government. I do not believe that mankind is a menace to the Earth any more than I believe the Earth is a menace to mankind. I believe that there is no such thing as acting against your nature.

It is natural for men to be dissatisfied with their circumstances. And it is natural for some men to use coercive violence in order to alter these circumstances. But resistance to this violence is also natural. And it is natural for some to explain that peaceful cooperation leads to greater happiness than does violent appropriation. It is our nature to present new ideas, weigh them in our minds, and choose to accept or reject them. It is my nature to see no use in picking between a career ciminal and an obnoxious charlatan. It is your nature to ignore the stupidity of it all and to enter into the polling booth.

No matter which candidate proves victorious in November, I can assure you that there will be no alteration in human nature. We will remain dissatisfied as we ever have been. Over the centuries, the characters have changed but the story has remained the same. Only rarely does the idea of Liberty make a strong enough impression to reduce hunger, crime, and ignorance for the mass of men. Mostly we just cry out for a mightier shepherd to relieve us from the burden of choice. But don't be sad. Just pour yourself a drink, turn off the television, and try to appreciate every ounce of freedom in your life. The sky at dusk, the soft glow of the lamp, and even the sound of your ceiling fan can be enjoyed without the permission of any authority and without the contribution of anyone else's opinion.

It is human nature to try and find solutions to problems. The only solution for dealing with the inadequacies of the human race is to improve the only person you can control: yourself. Politics is not only non-conducive to this goal, it's downright inimical.

Music, Alcohol, and Literature

I wish my medium was music. But my medium is words. Words are so limited. Music can reach into the depths of your mind and soul and connect with...something I cannot describe because there are no words to describe it. I've spent many hours clumsily strumming on guitars. And from time to time, I'll bang randomly on a piano. But the gift is not in me. Thank God for the people who do have it and use it. How much more dreary and impossible would life be without music?

That's not to say that the written word is unimportant. I could not get by without the words of the great writers. People who know me well will hear the same names come up again and again; the names of my literary heroes. Ludwig von Mises, H.L. Mencken, John Steinbeck, Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Bukowski, Frederic Bastiat, Murray Rothbard, George Orwell, and Kurt Vonnegut, just to name a few. Like music, these men seem to be able to transcend the limitation of words and touch something deep. The same goes for Dostoevsky, Twain, Plato, and even Fred Reed. But these men are special. Most of us will never be able to make profound connections with strangers across time and space just by transforming the thoughts in our head into words to be read.

Listening to great musicians and reading great writing are forms of worship for me. If I combine them, the worship intensifies. But there is still a missing ingredient if I want to reach euphoria. I need alcohol. By themselves, each of these three things can make me reverent of the God of the universe. But when I combine them, it's one of the closest things to heaven on earth that I can ever experience, the other being incredible sex. You know the kind of sex I mean. The kind where you completely lose yourself in your partner and the entire world and its infinite problems evanesce. Time stops. The universe hums. Sex was definitely one of God's greatest inventions. Right up there with the aforementioned music, alcohol, and literature.

I suppose the common factor in all of these modes of worship is appreciation. And every individual shows their passionate appreciation for the creation in their own individual way. Some through cooking and/or eating. Some through caring for their children or their pets. Some people jump out of planes. Some people create beautiful paintings. Some people appreciate architecture and poetry. Some people like to sit quietly by a stream. And some people like to sit in a dim room, listening to Howlin' Wolf while drinking cheap bourbon on a rainy afternoon. There's no doubt about it. Appreciation is key.

I wish my medium was music. If my medium was music, I could make you understand how I think and feel without the use of any of these words. I could play a few notes and appreciation would involuntarily pour from your heart. The world would be a better place, if only for those few moments.

Sneaky Russians

Pete really doesn't like to talk very much. I assume this is because he can't really hear for shit. Every time I walk into his barber shop it's the same routine; he asks me what we're doing, I tell him that I just want a 3 guard all the way around, and he quietly proceeds to buzz my hair off as instructed. When I first began going to him, I would make an effort to start up conversation with him. But I quickly learned that this was futile because, like I said, he can't really hear for shit.

A little more than a week before I was to leave for my vacation to Russia, I stopped into Pete's for the usual. Pete must have been in a rare mood because as he was finishing up, he asked me how I'd been and what had I been up to. I said in a consciously, almost obnoxiously, loud voice that I was planning a trip to Moscow. "Pardon?" replied the deaf barber. "I AM GETTING READY TO GO TO RUSSIA." This time he heard me. "Russia?" he responded. "Why would you go to Russia?" I loudly and briefly explained that I had decided to travel the world and that I already had a friend living in Moscow who could show me aroud. Plus, I remarked further, it would be nice to get there and see it before the bastards bring the iron curtain back down.

Pete, like almost every other person I had told about this trip, began to slowly shake his head. "You trust them?" he asked in disbelief. "The Russians?" I replied. "Sure. Why not?" Pete continued to shake his head. "I don't! They're sneaky!" He was being serious, but I immediately laughed. The first thing that came to mind was Boris the Blade (aka Boris the Bullet Dodger), the Russian character in the movie Snatch. The other characters are constantly referring to him as "that sneaky fuckin' Russian". I tried to assure Pete that I would be fine as he pulled the cape off of me and I stood up to pay. I gave him a twenty and he gave me a ten back in change. Later I would message my Muscovite friend, Sasha, and tell her how my old barber had warned me that Russians are sneaky. "It's true", she replied.

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It was my fourth day in Moscow when Sasha suggested that I might like to visit VDNKh Park. She told me that they had collected a lot of Soviet era monuments and such in this place. It was basically a museum (At least, that's how I understood it at the time. Upon returning home, I looked it up and found a distinctly different description). My interest was piqued immediately. She would not be able to go with me because she had to work, but she told me I could take the Metro to VDNKh Station and then, once I was there, I would need to ask someone for directions to the park. I googled the location and thought I had a pretty good idea of where it was. I pulled my Metro map out of my back left pocket. It was the only thing I carried in my back pockets after Sasha and her friend had flipped out on the first night when they learned I had both my wallet and passport in my backpockets. "Why would you do that?" Sasha demanded to know. "Why would you just leave it where someone could take it?" "Maybe Pete was right", I thought.

I walked down to the nearest Metro station which was called Sukharevskaya. Like VDNKh, it is an orange line station. This meant that I would not even need to switch trains. VDNKh was only four stops away. Easy. I made my way on to the car and found a seat. Then I concentrated on the little chart above the windows that showed the names of the stops. Almost every word that came over the PA system was gibberish as far as I was concerned. But I listened for the names of the stops and made sure I didn't miss my station. First was Prospekt Mira. Sasha had previously explained to me that this translated to "prospect of world peace". Then came Rizhskaya. Then Alexeyevskaya. Finally, I arrived at VDNKh. By the way, VDNKh is apparently an acronym. It stands for Vystavka Dostizheniy Norodnogo Khozyaystva which translates to Exhibition of Achievements of National Economy...in case you were wondering.

I ascended from the Metro and saw a little park. From my previous Google research, I knew that this little park was northwest of the station and that my destination was northwest of the park. I began walking. I very soon came upon what is a common sight in Moscow; a beautiful Russian Orthodox church. But this one had a graveyard. I had not yet, to that point, laid eyes upon a Russian graveyard. Each grave was fenced off from the next. I'd never seen anything like it. The yard was just a mess of iron rods, granite crosses, and various flowers, trees, and plants. When I later brought it up to Sasha, she joked that Russians are so tired of collectivism that by the time they die, they would at least like a private grave, fenced off from all the others.

I continued past the church and began walking down a road that I assumed would lead me to VDNKh Park. There were signs that said, in English, that they led to the "Russian Cultural Center". I figured that must be the same thing. I decided to follow these signs. They led me to a boulevard that was lined on both sides by somewhat run down Soviet era apartment buildings. Weatherwise, it was a lovely day and there were many people walking about. I took off my jacket and began to carry it. I began to get very thirsty. I figured I would hold out until I got to the park before I would bother buying any. I walked another block. And then another. The signs kept leading me onward. Another block. Another. The apartment buildings seemed to be getting worse and worse. But the people walking the streets seemed to be as nicely dressed as any Russians I'd seen. I walked on, getting thirstier with every step. "Where is this damn place already?" I wondered.

I had been walking for what seemed like an eternity when I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I needed water. My mouth was unimaginably dry. In my head I could hear Hank Williams singing about throats burned dry and souls that cry for water. Cool, clear water. I saw a sign that said "продукты" (groceries) and went inside to fetch a bottle of glorious H2O. The shop was very small and there were already a handful of other patrons in there. I made my way to the back where the cooler was. I opened the sliding door and selected a bottle and began to study it carefully. You see, in Moscow (and from what I've heard, most of Europe) many people prefer carbonated water to plain water. I'm not kidding. They really go crazy for that shit. But I, being a thirsty person, had no need for carbonated water. I wanted the real deal. The problem was that I have an incredibly limited russian vocabulary and could not decipher which bottle was which. I had already accidentally purchased the fizzy water on a previous day and was determined to avoid it this time. I shook the bottle ever so slightly (so as not to draw attention) to see whether or not it would fizz. It didn't seem to. Satisfied with my choice, I approached the register.

The woman at the register rang up the bottle and jabbered at me in Russian the amount I owed. There was no screen to show me the number, and I had no clue what she had said. "Vy govorite po-angliiski?", I asked. She briskly shook her head and exhaled a sigh of annoyance through her nose. At that moment, I noticed some shady looking characters entering the little store. They were dirty and not at all dressed like the pleasent people I had seen on the street. I tried to ignore them and focus on the problem at hand. I remembered that the price listed in the cooler was around 120 rubles. But I wasn't sure if they charged sales tax afterward like they do here in the States (turns out they don't). I had several rubles in coins in my pocket. But I decided it would be easier to just give her the 500 ruble note (about $7.50 American) that was in my wallet. I handed it to her. She looked at it for a moment and then began to jabber at me again while motioning to the register. I gathered that she was trying to tell me that she did not have enough change for such a large note. I plunged my hand into my pocket and presented to her all my ruble coins. I held them in my open palm like a child as she picked out the 20s and 10s needed and then completed the transaction by placing my change back into the same palm. "Spasibo", I said before exiting the shop and continuing in the direction that the signs pointed.

I turned the corner and smiled to myself. "Such nice people", I thought. They didn't care that I was an American or that our governments are currently in the middle of an extremely dangerous and completely asinine pissing match. This particular store clerk was not unique in her willingness to assist a helpless foreigner. I saw it time and again while I was there. The rude people seemed to be few and far between. There is absolutely no reason for any animosity between the American people and the Russian people. If it weren't for the power hungry assholes in Washington and inside the Kremlin, we common people would engage in peaceful trade and friendship with few problems. "I really like it here. I like these people", I thought as I twisted the cap off my bottle. I was so parched. I needed this cool water so badly. I took a giant swig of the water. It was carbonated. "Sneaky fuckin' Russians!" I began to pray for a nuclear war to put me out of my misery.

That Time I Flew to Moscow

Cruising through the sky at 35,000 feet, my stewardess approached me and asked whether I would prefer white wine, red wine, juice, or water. But I couldn't understand her because she was speaking in Russian. Like all of the Aeroflot flight attendants, she was very pretty and wearing a red uniform bordered with white lapel and cuffs, a red hat, and red high heels. Quite an improvement on the American Airlines staff, I thought. "I don't understand. English?" I asked. Her face showed her annoyance with me as she repeated the options in a language I could comprehend. "I'll take the white wine." She poured some into a little paper cup and handed it to me. I'll admit that I really don't know much about wine other than I like it dry. This wine seemed at least as good as any $10 bottle I've ever bought stateside. She and the the attendant on the opposite end of the cart moved on down the aisle and I returned to reading Bukowski.

I hit the little power button on the screen located in front of me and saw that we still had 8 hours until we were to arrive in Moscow. I was still hoping I would be able to get some sleep at some point before the end of the flight. I shuffled through the options on the screen and found the flight path. We were headed up the eastern Canadian coast and would soon be crossing over the Labrador Sea on our way to the southern tip of Greenland. The stewardess came back briefly to retrieve and dispose of my empty paper cup. "I should have asked her how these damn seats recline", I thought. "How do these damn seats recline?" I snuck a peak at the gentleman to my left to see if he had figured it out. We were each on opposite ends of a row of four seats with no one occupying the middle two. The man was dressed in a navy blue suit with no tie and he looked very much like Willem DaFoe. For all I know, it was Willem DaFoe. His seat wasn't reclined and he didn't wear the face expression of someone who valued strangers pestering him. "I shouldn't bother Willem Dafoe", I decided.

It wasn't long before the stewardess was back with her cart. This time she wanted to know whether I wanted fish or pork. But I didn't know that. Once again she had asked me in Russian. Once again I politely asked that she repeat it in English. This would be a theme throughout the flight. They would insist on speaking Russian to me and I would insist that they repeat themselves in my native tongue so that I might understand. I placed my book in the empty seat beside me and chose the fish. A platter was placed on my fold-down tray. There was the fish, a rye roll, a salad, and a little dessert cake of some sort. But no drink. "That's strange", I thought. "I wonder why they gave me my drink so much earlier than my meal." I decided to eat the salad first. It had a little tomato and a thin slice of meat in it. Was this also fish? I was never sure, but I ate it anyway. Not bad, whatever it was. I peeled the tin foil top off of the entree and took the rye roll out of its package. It was surprisingly difficult to take a bite of the roll. It required a good amount of effort. I decided to dip it in whatever sauce they had covered the fish with. Again, not bad. Quite good, actually. The fish itself was also good. I looked back over at Willem Dafoe. He was eating, but he didn't look particularly happy about it. After that was all gone, I moved on to the little cake. It was something with cinnamon. I liked it. But I did wish that I had a beverage to help wash it down.

I had already finished the cake and had gone back to reading my book as I waited for my trash to be collected, when the stewardess returned again and asked if I wanted "чай или кофе" (tea or coffee). I chose tea and she poured the hot liquid into the little plastic mug that had been delivered with my meal. "What the hell?" I wondered. They would repeat this pattern when they served the second meal of the flight. Drink, meal, and then tea or coffee. "Strange customs in a strange land", I mused. I was ready for it by the time I was on my return flight to JFK. But the tea was good.

After I had finished and all the trash had been collected, I began to once again try and figure out how the damn seats reclined. "How do these damn seats recline?" I thought. I could see that other passengers were reclined. Why couldn't I? I could find no lever on the side or underneath. There was a little button on the arm of the seat. I wondered if it was a call button. "I'll press it", I decided. "The worst that can happen is that it will call the stewardess and then I can ask her how these damn seats recline." I pressed the button and leaned back. Nothing. And it didn't seem to alert any of the flight staff either. I began to resign myself to sleeping upright. I was happy that I at least had a flight pillow. "It won't be so bad", I thought. Somewhere past Iceland I finally did stop a stewardess and ask if she knew the secret to make those frustrating seats recline. It was the same woman who had poured my wine and she wore the same expression of contempt as she pushed the same little button on the arm of my seat that I had pressed. This time the seat reclined. "I'm an idiot", I thought. "I'll never make it out of Moscow alive. I can't even figure out an airplane seat."

But I did make it out of Moscow alive. By the time I was on my return flight, I could recline seats and chew rye rolls with the best of them. The new staff could look right at my American face and immediately know that I was a man who needed to be spoken to in English. There was no need for sleep. It was not an overnight flight. And the man seated beside me was an architecture student from central Russia who in no way resembled Willem DaFoe. No tea for me, thanks. I'll have a coffee.

Abortion

I am pro life and I am also pro choice. I am personally against abortion, war, and the death penalty. But I think choosing suicide is perfectly legitimate. I understand that these views, for whatever reason, don't seem to fit together for other people. Ted Cruz considers himself a champion of life because he is against abortion, but advocates that we "carpet bomb" the people of Syria. The prevailing notion on the political Left seems to be that life is sacred in almost every scenario. People and animals alike are to be treated humanely and protected by the mighty State. The only glaring exception is the case of inconvenient human fetuses. Much like the apologists for collateral damage, they believe that there must be sacrifices. The sacrificial lambs would surely thank us if they were aware of what we were sparing them.

As far as I'm concerned, there is only one legitimate argument for not finding abortion morally repugnant, and that is if you simply do not believe that a fetus is a person yet. Really, that is the entire "pro life/pro choice" argument. It's an insoluble philosophical debate. For as simple and unassailable as that argument appears though, I rarely hear anyone on the Left invoke it. Instead, they prefer to continually beat on the worn out strawmen of Choice and Women's Health. No pro-lifer that I've ever met has had any issues with women choosing their own shoes, their own homes, or their own careers. They just don't think women have a special right to choose to kill their own offspring, no matter the age. This is a very particular choice. The argument, once again, is whether or not the anthropomorphic piece of flesh with a beating heart is a person who has a right not to be killed.

Of course, nothing is cut and dry. The health of the pregnant woman is (obviously) intertwined with that of the fetus. There are times when a pregnancy is a threat to the mother. This is an entirely different matter. The decision to terminate such a pregnancy should not be held in contempt by those who have never been in such a dilemma. Choosing the mother's life is still choosing life.

Personally, I am not sure when a human being develops as a person with rights. All I know is that it must be sometime after conception. And since I cannot identify a theory of personhood that I find satisfactory, I feel it is best to err on the side of life. But then I think of how any law banning abortions might be enforced. I have no interest in the State pestering women about whether or not their life was really in danger during pregnancy. I hate the idea of doctors on trial trying to defend their medical reasoning to some son-of-a-bitch prosecutor. Imagine a woman who actually wanted a baby only to lose it and then end up in a battle with her government over whether or not she should be imprisoned. No, this won't do.

As per usual, the blunt force of the State is an unsatisfactory tool for addressing a societal ill. There is really only one person who can ultimately protect an unborn child's life from being extinguished by "choice", and that's the mother. Women should be persuaded that they should chose life long before they ever become pregnant. Pro-lifers should refrain from calling these women "whores" or "murderers". They are not murderers if it is not a person. And when bombastic lefties try to say you're anti choice, gently steer them back to the real point of contention. Does an abortion kill a person? Then you can debate them on what makes a person a person, which is far more interesting. And if you come to a conclusion on that, be sure to share it with me. I'd love to know.

Well, there's my take on the abortion debate. For my evidence of war being mass murder, check here. And here is where you can find my defense of choosing suicide. I've never written about my opposition to the death penalty. Perhaps another time.

Barroom Philosophers

I love to eavesdrop on the conversations of strangers in public. You never know what sort of delightful (and likely out of context) comment you will hear. Little snippets of conversation can entertain me in the moment even if I forget them the very next moment. But one particular night I was treated to something a bit more special. I overheard two men in the pub, probably in their mid thirties, discussing God in what sounded to be a very non conventional way. I was so intrigued that I asked if I could sit with them and just listen. They were fairly lit and more than happy to have someone join. They were in a dispute and each seemed eager to have an audience for their contest. It probably didn't hurt that I offered to buy them a pitcher. They introduced themselves as Mac and Nick. Drinks in hand, they continued their pursuit. Mac spoke first. He seemed to always be smiling.

"I actually do believe in a god, or whatever you want to call it. The Spirit that inhabits all life."

Nick wore an expression of thinly veiled contempt.

"Does this god speak to you? Does he intervene in your life? Does he answer your prayers?"

"He doesn't speak to me audibly. I don't know whether or not he intervenes, honestly. I don't pray except to tell him, or it, or whatever, 'thank you.'"

"Him or it or whatever."

Mac laughed, "Yes. Whatever."

"What do you thank him for? Or it for? Or whatever?"

"Life. The chance to experience the universe he created."

"And what about pain? Do you thank him for pain? And violence? Do you thank him for that?"

"No, it's beauty and peace that I thank him for. But honestly, sometimes I can see how beautiful everything is. Even death, violence, and pain."

"And disease. Let's not forget all of the beautiful diseases." Nick's sarcasm was apparent.

"Even disease."

"Your god sure allows a lot of horrible things to happen on this earth. Children are raped and murdered every day. People are blown to bits in pointless fucking wars", he seethed. "Your god is either all powerful or all good. There is no way he can be both. If he has the power to stop this and doesn't, then, at best, he is totally apathetic toward human suffering. At worst, he is a monster."

"Who said he was all powerful?"

Nick paused before replying, "Your Holy Bible."

"My Holy Bible? I don't believe in the Bible."

"Oh, that's right. God is a 'whatever' to you. So, then where do you get your belief of an everlasting god?"

"Revelation."

"Revelation", Nick repeated.

"Divine revelation."

"God revealed himself to you?"

"He did. I know that it sounds crazy, but he did."

"How?"

"Well, I had been reading Plato all morning one day...One of the dialogues, but I can't remember which one. I think it was probably the one where they condemn Socrates to death. Which one is that?"

"Apology."

"Right! I had been reading The Apology that morning. God, Socrates is brilliant in that one. That's the best one. They basically sentence him to death for being annoying", Mac laughed. "After he has been found guilty and the prosecution recommends the death penalty, they give Socrates a chance to suggest a lesser punishment and then the jury can vote between the two punishments. He recommends that not only should they not punish him, but they should reward him with a public position!" Mac's eyes sparkled as he excitedly and joyously gave this rendition. "Imagine the balls it takes to say that! His life was on the line! And of course, the jury chose death."

"I've read it", Nick responded coolly. "So, God revealed himself to you..."

"Right. After that, I was doing some chores, just picking up or whatever, and I got a hankering for some Mozart, specifically, the Lacrimosa movement of his Requiem Mass. That is such a great piece. I put in my earbuds and pulled it up on YouTube. I think I was actually making a sandwich at this point. Anyway, it was the first time I had ever listened to it with earbuds and you cannot imagine how much it adds to the experience. It gave me the chills. So, I decided to listen to it again. It was even better the second time. Positive vibes are all around me. I decide to listen to it a third time. Now the positive vibes are starting to overwhelm me. And as it begins to crescendo toward the end, it occurs to me that I was just reading a book that was written over two thousand years ago in Greece and now I'm listening to a song that was composed over two hundred years ago in Austria! And that it all seems like it was for me. And then the final 'amen' hits and BAM!" He slammed the table, accidentally sloshing some beer from his glass. "It was like a bolt of energy came rushing through me. Like it was...like I was a lightning rod. A spiritual lightning rod. It almost knocked me to the ground. I had to brace myself against the counter. Tears flooded my eyes. It was like a mental orgasm! And at that moment, I felt like I was part of all life at all times. Every blade of grass, every one who has ever lived, all connected through time and space by the life force!"

"Was my grandma there?"

Mac and I both laughed.

"No, I didn't see any individuals", Mac said as he smiled. "It was just...I don't know. All of life. Ever. And it was the greatest moment of my life."

"Praise the Lord."

"I know it sounds crazy."

"So, I'm supposed to believe in God based on your experience?"

"No. I do not feel compelled to convince you of anything. I'm just telling you what happened to me."

"Have you ever heard of Stendhal Syndrome?"

"No."

"He was...I'm not sure how long ago, but...here, I'll look it up." Nick pulled his phone up and began searching. While he did that, I offered to buy everyone a round of Bulleit bourbon. "Actually, could you make mine a Bulleit Rye? I like their bourbon, but I'm in love with their rye. Thank you so much, man!"

I returned with two shots of bourbon and one shot of rye. They each thanked me profusely before we clanked glasses and quickly gulped down the contents. "Ok, here it is", said Nick as he read from Wikipedia. "'Stendhal syndrome, Stendhal's syndrome, hyperkulturemia, or Florence syndrome is a psychosomatic disorder that causes rapid heartbeat, dizziness, fainting, confusion and even hallucinations when an individual is exposed to an experience of great personal significance, particularly viewing art.' Hear that? Hallucinations."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it was named after a famous French author from the 19th century named Stendhal (of course), who wrote about this feeling when he visited Florence." Nick went on to read what Stendhal had to say about his own experience. "'I was in a sort of ecstasy, from the idea of being in Florence, close to the great men whose tombs I had seen. Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty... I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations... Everything spoke so vividly to my soul. Ah, if I could only forget. I had palpitations of the heart, what in Berlin they call 'nerves.' Life was drained from me. I walked with the fear of falling."'

"That sounds a lot like what I experienced."

"Yes, it does."

"I've had a mild version of this several times before in my life. But this was the first full on mental orgasm."

Nick scoffed. "A mental orgasm."

"It was glorious."

"Well, you still haven't convinced me that there's a god."

"I was never trying to convince you."

I told the men to feel free to enjoy the rest of the pitcher without me, as I needed to be going. They thanked me again as I left. I learned on a later day that those two are always there discussing various aspects of the universe. And they always close the place down. They never tire of playing point and counterpoint. They never tire of drinking and talking. Basically, they never shut up. They need each other. Without the one, the other will pester any patron of the bar with the same sorts of questions about "truth" or "knowledge". I don't know if they ever find any answers. But at least they are searching.

The Dimness of Democracy

Very rarely do I bother scrolling through my Facebook feed. I'm not really sure why I ever do, to be honest. The vast majority of the time I find nothing of any real interest, good or bad. But occasionally, as I scroll through every asinine political opinion, every generic prayer, and every insipid inspirational quote, my mood begins to darken. I find myself besieged by a heavy ennui. I hear tell that God made these people in his image. Heaven help us.

This is part of the reason that it is difficult for me to share people's faith in democracy. I'm supposed to let this majority's representatives wield power against me? They should get to decide the boundaries of my freedom? We have been doing this whole "let the masses choose a leader" thing in America for more than 200 years and behold what it has brought us! Nothing but liars, thieves, and war mongering mass murderers. I'm supposed to choose between Hillary Clinton and Ted Cruz? Or maybe Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump? Am I the only one who sees how fucking stupid this has become?

I watched CNN's highlights of the most recent Republican "debate". The crowd was booing and cheering all that they hated and all that they loved respectively. Is this a football game? How is one expected to perform his patriotic duty of pretending that the debates carry intellectual significance while jackasses are howling over the canned responses of charlatans and would be despots? As a friend of mine noted, "It's like a reality t.v. show. No wonder Trump is doing so well." H.L. Mencken, sage that he was, always seemed to be able to cut through the shit and get right to the heart of the matter (if I may so crassly mix metaphors):

If x is the population of the United States and y is the degree of imbecility of the average American, then democracy is the theory that x X y is less than y.

"But Brandon, or Anthony, or whatever the hell you're calling yourself these days," I can hear you protest. "Democracy may not be perfect, but it's the best thing we've got. Would you rather we were ruled by a king?" I must admit that King Numbers has been a far gentler chieftain than any socialist dictator. But America doesn't have a true democracy, fortunately. The Founders were a bunch of aristocratic elitists who didn't fully trust that liberty would be protected by the mob rule of the plebs. Government for the People and by the People? Not so much. But they did give the People a say. And as that germ of Democracy has grown, so has the power of the State, particularly that of the executive branch.

You see, it was never democracy that was the most important factor in America's formerly unprecedented wealth and freedom. It was adherence to a sound philosophy. Individual liberty and private property rights were given primacy over the capricious opinions of 51% of the population. Voters chose candidates, then as now, who were made to swear an oath to uphold the Constitution. They were pledging to never make legislation that would violate natural rights or the rule of law. But no one takes that pledge seriously anymore. They know you don't care.

I suppose people have pretty much been the same throughout recorded history. I highly doubt that they will be changing anytime soon. I don't even know why I bother with most social media. I'm not really a social butterfly. I'm more like a moth. I'm attracted to the people who have light shining out of them. I want nothing to do with the dim.

Liberty and the Intellectually Elite

Ideas are all that matter. From all appearances, the Left wing is the most recent victor in the culture war and the fear mongering Right has proved triumphant in the ideas of supposed national security. This is mostly bad on both accounts. Both the Left and the Right fall under the umbrella of progressive statism which is an incredibly pernicious idea. But how could such a harmful idea become so prominent in a society that once cherished liberty? Why would the mass of people choose relative tyranny over self determination? Aside from the detrimental effect that government schooling has wrought on rational thinking, I think that perhaps progressivism is just easier to grasp. And people will almost always follow the path of least resistance.

If this is true, then the real question is how did individual liberty become so popular in the 18th and 19th centuries? Almost all of human history is a story of people being oppressed by the powerful. But for that brief moment in time in the West, it was freedom that had the momentum. True freedom. The United States seemed to be the first place where a government was founded almost apologetically. Indeed, even the writings of those in the government reflected a deep suspicion of State power. As liberty grew, so did the wealth of the common man. This led to men trying to discover the connection between liberty and wealth. These men were eventually dubbed economists.

Why were the benefits of individual liberty and strong property rights able to be grasped and accepted by the common man then as opposed to now? Were people just smarter back then? I tend to think not. Just as it is today, there has always been a small group of men who have been intellectually superior to the rest of us. The ideas of these men ultimately shape the opinions of the masses. But even the intellectual elite can (and often do) harbor toxic philosophies. They might have sound logic but if their premises are wrong; they will still arrive at faulty conclusions.

There is no short term solution for this perennial problem. The only game is long game. Those who will grow to become the next generation of intellectual elites must be exposed to the ideas of liberty when they are young. They must accept the correct premises before their egos are invested in the wrong ones. And then they must be persuasive. F.A. Hayek stated that there are two kinds of intellectuals. The first kind are the few great minds that come up with new ideas. The second kind are those who are able to grasp those ideas and then communicate them to the masses. Our hypothetical liberty loving elites will need fertile minds in the latter group in order to successfully bring the ideas of freedom, peace, and prosperity to the general public.

I've described the (vague) strategy for achieving the long term goal of increased individual liberty. But I've not mentioned the most important ingredient, viz., passion. You cannot teach passion and you cannot learn it. It's more like a virus that infects you. I don't need to persuade passionate people to go out and spread the gospel of freedom. They do it instinctively. They see truth and want everyone else to see. But even the passionate can become pessimistic and withdraw from the battle. This is why it is important that the lovers of true liberty encourage each other and try to remain engaged in the struggle. We might never see the seeds we plant bear fruit in our lifetime, but so what? There is nothing more beautiful than human freedom. And I will gladly expend my last breath extolling its countless virtues.

An Afternoon

There's just something about a sunny day that fills me with joy and optimism. Even when the temperature is below freezing, as it was this afternoon when I awoke with a splitting headache, the flood of UVB radiation through my apartment's windows warms my soul every bit as much as my skin. All of the negative aspects of existence that my good friend Bourbon had been bringing up the night before are easily lost sight of amid the synthesis of vitamin D and the blessed aroma of coffee. I don't blame Bourbon for showing me the downside of life. It isn't his fault that he is able to see through all of the bullshit and get to the central truth of all matters. It is in his nature. He is a harsh drink with harsh insights. And harsh drinks make for harsh friends.

But all of his negativity is forgotten on this morning. The sky is blue and The Fifth Dimension's "Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In" is playing on my phone. This immediately makes me miss my children. The youngest two love to dance to this song. Maybe Emmy will always want to dance with me, but I know Towbin will outgrow it one day. A pang amidst the sunshine. I send a quick text message to their mother to see how they are doing. I learn that Emerson still says she doesn't feel well. She has been especially out of sorts recently. Nothing I can do from 90 miles away. But no matter! I have Phoebus at my side and caffeine in my cup. All concerns seem petty. In the end, everything will be right.

As I finish laying a few slices of bacon on the skillet, my phone rings. Once upon a time, children, phones didn't let you know who you would be talking to before you answered. Back then, there was only one way to find out. But in this modern age I instantly know that it is Kris who is calling. Kris and I often discuss current events, political & legal theories, what movies we've recently watched for the thousandth time, and even what is going on in our personal lives such as work and school. We talk, we laugh, we vent, and (most often) we mock, denigrate, and nearly pity all who are not us.

After hanging up with Kris and rinsing off my breakfast plate in the sink, I begin to get ready for work. It occurs to me that I haven't practiced my Russian lesson today. It's lesson 5: Countries and Languages. I must learn to say Питер и Марта из Берлина (Peter and Martha are from Berlin) for some reason. Perhaps this is a phrase that is handy to have ready when walking about Red Square. How embarrassing it would be to be queried by some curious Muscovite about the residence of those two Germans and then show myself to be a typical ignorant American by having no response at the ready. I vow then to complete my lesson at some point during the work night.

I put on my Carhartt, my knit cap, and my mirrored aviators. I am armored against both the icy wind and the blinding rays of the Earth's most salient benefactor. Once in the car, I turn up the stereo and begin driving to my destination. The fact that I was recently issued a citation for speeding doesn't detour me from driving like a free person. My brother gave me Oh, Inverted World for Christmas. It's a beautiful day and "New Slang" is a beautiful song. I feel like nothing will be wrong ever again.