Demonstrator

     [A short story for you today. As it’s Passion Sunday, on which Catholics read from the Gospel of John about Jesus’s final miracle before He went to Jerusalem, I thought a related tale might be appropriate.
     This story first appeared at the V2.0 site, now defunct, on March 26, 2023 – FWP.]

***

     The last of his perceptions dimmed and winked out. He found himself without sensation of any sort, not even that of his own weight. Though his eyes were open, they saw nothing. His ears registered no slightest sound. His senses of smell, taste, and touch were equally idle. It gave him a eerie sense of displacement, as if he were floating in an ocean that had no water. Yet not even the gentle motions of such a body, stirred by sun, wind, and tide, could he feel.
     But he remained aware. The thought stream that had bedeviled him continued unbroken.
     What place is this?
     Am I not to face judgment?
     He could still detect the passage of time. What meaning has time, in the complete absence of sensations, material things, and the events that accompany them? How would one measure it?
     Yet he had not ended. He persisted. The sequence of his thoughts continued, unbroken by death.
     Therefore there is more.
     I will wait. What else I can do, after all?
     A soundless reply, words without volume or timbre, arrived in his consciousness.
     Reflect.
     It startled him, jolted him into a new plane of consciousness.
     Is it You, my God?
     Again the reply was undeniable, though it transcended perception.
     I am what I am.
     It stilled him, turned his thoughts back upon themselves.
     To persist is to have significance. I have a destiny to fulfill. Yet afloat in this void, I have no way to seek it out or embark upon it. What, then?
     The reply was the same.
     Reflect.
     He did so.
     I cannot act. Yet I persist. Therefore, I am to be acted upon. But how?
     No answer came to him.
     Could this be punishment for my sins? Helplessness as the penalty for squandering my life? But did I truly squander it? I worked. I prayed. I did my best for my loved ones. Surely those were not sins.
     Still nothing.
     Perhaps I do not understand sin.
     He examined the course of his life, straining to remember its details down to the smallest minutiae. He found a few peccadillos, but nothing against the Commandments or what they implied. He slowly became convinced that, in that timeless place where his thoughts continued to flow, he did indeed await a destiny yet to be fulfilled…but that his future lay in the hands of another.
     I am to be used.
     The idea might have brought resentment, but it did not.
     If I can be used, then despite my death I have worth. It will not be my own deeds that fulfill that destiny, but the deeds of another.
     With that thought there came a mighty roaring. Insubstantial forces seized and held him. Power unfathomed by men had massed around him and taken him up for use. His ponderings ceased and were replaced by an ecstatic peace.
     Let all be as it must be.
     He sensed rather than heard the words of his liberation spoken.
     LAZARUS, COME FORTH!
     And it was so.

#

     “Did you sleep, brother?” Martha said.
     He shook his head. “I rested, but I was aware. How long…?”
     Her face spasmed. “Four days.”
     “It did not seem so.”
     “We feared that he might fail,” she said. “That you would be lost to us.”
     He shook his head. “He has never failed, sister.”
     “Did you…expect it?”
     “Not at all. I knew only that…something awaited. That I had an unfulfilled destiny, but that it was not mine to initiate it.” He smiled. “I realized that I would be used for a task of which I was not capable.”
     “And it was so,” Martha said. “Many came to believe today. Many who had been skeptical even knowing of his other deeds.”
     Lazarus nodded. “I among them.” His heart filled afresh with joy and peace. “What an honor, to be used thus!”
     Martha bowed her head.

==<O>==

     Copyright © 2023 Francis W. Porretto. All rights reserved worldwide.

***

     May God bless and keep you all.

Rest In Peace, Chuck Norris

     I can’t quite believe it. Chuck Norris, the martial arts legend and hero to millions, has lost a match – to the Grim Reaper! Incredible. The man was still in fighting trim in his eighties. No black-cloaked buffoon toting a scythe should have stood a chance against him.

     But there it is. Norris passed away at the age of 86 from an undisclosed sudden illness. The world is a sadder place for his departure from it.

     Let us enumerate some of his many achievements in remembrance:

• Death once had a near-Chuck-Norris experience.
• Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.
• Time waits for no man. Unless that man is Chuck Norris.
• When the Boogeyman goes to bed, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.
• Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.
• Chuck Norris doesn't sleep. He waits.
• Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.
• Chuck Norris counted to infinity—twice.
• When Chuck Norris does push-ups, he isn't lifting himself up—he's pushing the Earth down.
• Chuck Norris can divide by zero.
• Chuck Norris can hear sign language.
• Chuck Norris doesn't wear a watch. He decides what time it is.
• When Chuck Norris enters a room, he doesn't turn the lights on—he turns the dark off.
• The flu gets a Chuck Norris shot every year.
• Chuck Norris can build a snowman out of rain.
• Chuck Norris doesn't dial the wrong number. You pick up the wrong phone.
• Chuck Norris has a grizzly bear carpet in his room. The bear isn't dead—it's just afraid to move.
• Chuck Norris' cowboy boots are made from real cowboys.
• Fear of spiders is called arachnophobia. Fear of Chuck Norris is called logic.
• Chuck Norris once kicked a horse in the chin. Its descendants are now known as giraffes.
• Chuck Norris can cook minute rice in 30 seconds.
• There is no theory of evolution, just a list of creatures Chuck Norris allows to live.
• Chuck Norris can do a wheelie on a unicycle.
• Chuck Norris doesn't play hide and seek. He plays hide and pray I don't find you.
• Chuck Norris can kill two stones with one bird.
• Chuck Norris can speak Braille.
• Chuck Norris can make a Happy Meal cry.
• Aliens are real. They're just afraid to come to Earth because Chuck Norris lives here.
• Chuck Norris can strangle you with a cordless phone.
• Chuck Norris can win a staring contest with his eyes closed.
• Chuck Norris' roundhouse kick is so powerful it can be seen from space by the naked eye.
• Chuck Norris once won a game of Connect Four in three moves.
• Chuck Norris can unscramble an egg.
• Chuck Norris can drown a fish.
• Chuck Norris can delete the Recycle Bin.
• Chuck Norris can clap with one hand.
• Chuck Norris can make onions cry.
• Chuck Norris doesn't age—he levels up.
• Chuck Norris can win at solitaire with real cards.
• Chuck Norris' calendar goes straight from March 31st to April 2nd. No one fools Chuck Norris.
• Chuck Norris can start a fire with an ice cube.
• Chuck Norris doesn't do refunds. You do.
• Chuck Norris can microwave popcorn by staring at it.
• Chuck Norris can sneeze with his eyes open.
• Chuck Norris doesn't vacuum. He scares the dirt away.
• Chuck Norris can hear sign language over the phone.
• Chuck Norris doesn't spell-check. Words conform to him.
• Chuck Norris can cut through a hot knife with butter.
• Chuck Norris can parallel park in two moves.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need a GPS. Locations report to him.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need sleep—he recharges by staring at the sun.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need food. Food needs Chuck Norris.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need a belt. Gravity submits to him.
• Chuck Norris can make a campfire with wet wood and attitude.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need a parachute. Gravity is afraid to pull him down.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need Wi-Fi. The internet connects to him.
• Chuck Norris can solve a Rubik's Cube by staring at it.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need a map. Maps need Chuck Norris.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need oxygen. Oxygen needs Chuck Norris.
• Chuck Norris can make a mime talk.
• Chuck Norris can make a ghost haunt itself.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need a mirror. Mirrors reflect what he allows.
• Chuck Norris can make lightning ask for permission.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need a shadow. Shadows follow him.
• Chuck Norris doesn't need luck. Luck needs Chuck Norris.
• Chuck Norris can roundhouse kick the future into the past.
• Chuck Norris doesn't tell jokes. Jokes tell Chuck Norris.
• Chuck Norris doesn't cheat death. He wins fair and square.

     Chuck, you’re already being missed. Rest in Peace, old warrior.

Creating Your Own Problems

     Good morning, Gentle Reader. Happy Vernal Equinox (traditional). Wherever you are in this blessed land, I hope you’ll enjoy beautiful spring weather today, because I won’t. Here on the World’s Largest Piece of Terminal Moraine, it’s predicted to be overcast and damp all day. Bummer.

     I’ve come reluctantly to the conclusion that, with the notable exception of the Gentle Readers of Liberty’s Torch, people are pretty BLEEP!ing stupid. They’re nearly always the source of their own miseries. They overspend and then complain about being broke. They cloister themselves and then complain about having no friends or social life. They try to drive North-South on East-West roads, get smacked up, and then complain about “careless drivers” and high insurance premiums.

     The enveloping diagnosis for this malady is “It’s Someone Else’s Fault” syndrome. Given its prevalence, I have no doubt that you’ve observed it in someone you know. There’ve been days when I’ve imagined it everywhere.

     That may be because it really is everywhere.

* * *

     A brief vignette: Many years ago I had a coworker whom I shall henceforward refer to as “old Ray,” because that’s how he was known around the office. “Old Ray” couldn’t be bothered about things the rest of us regarded as the basic requirements of courtesy, such as tossing trash in a trash can rather than on the floor. He was a well-respected senior engineer, but so heedless of his surroundings that he created chaos for the rest of us.

     In particular, “old Ray” regularly failed to check whether the coffeemaker had ended its cycle before grabbing the carafe and filling his mug. He created many messes in this fashion. I, being a snotty little shit, upbraided him for it one day when his proclivity had left a large puddle of coffee on the floor of our office. He took umbrage, and a shouting match ensued. Management intervened before blows could be struck.

     I was taken aside and admonished for the incident. I’d “created the problem,” you see. “Everyone” knew that we had to make allowances for “old Ray.” I asked whether management was aware of the effect on the rest of us, and was answered with a “what can you do” shrug. I went back to my own labors shaking my head.

     It got me a reputation as a boat rocker. “Be careful around Fran,” the office gospel ran, “He says things.” Never mind that I was also the one who “does things,” such as solving others’ intractable problems and cleaning up after “old Ray;” that was deemed immaterial.

     I realized then that the rest of us were fated to clean up after “old Ray” until his retirement date should arrive. Management policy had deemed the status quo preferable to an uproar. Given that consensus, I, who’d evoked an uproar, was “the problem.” We’d been doomed to trash tossed aside in hallways and regular puddles on the floor.

     No, I didn’t stay there very long.

* * *

     Why am I exercised about this particular subject, you ask? Because few have grasped a simple fact of life in society:

Politics is not the source of solutions,
But of burdens, dissatisfactions, and disharmony.

     A private problem can be mitigated or solved by private means. A politicized problem becomes everyone’s problem. It draws the State into the matter and compels everyone to “take a side.” Such an expansion of the scope of the problem creates several things:

• Resentment among the unwillingly involved;
• Hard feelings between those who disagree about the matter;
• An opportunity for the State to expand its powers, which it will surely exploit.

     As if further irony were required, it also lessens the feeling of responsibility among those who did the politicizing. Now that it’s “everyone’s problem,” they can sit back while “everybody” – meaning the State, of course – does whatever will be done about it, good, bad, or indifferent.

     It’s madness, but it’s everywhere. “The personal is political!” shout the rabble-rousers of the Left. That means the end of privacy – the end of private action in response to private problems. It means that we must wait upon the State for the remediation of what displeases us. Finally, it means those who disapprove of you, whatever the reason, can bludgeon you into complying with their preferences. Assuming they can assemble a local preponderance of force, that is.

     I’m not going to thrash this into the magma layer. I just needed a moment to vent about… well, about “things as they are,” including ordinary people’s lack of resistance to the politicization of what should be private matters handled privately. We keep getting sucked into it, when a moment’s consideration should make it plain that politicizing an “issue” nearly always makes it worse.

     For the love of God, stop politicizing petty shit! Stop trying to compel others to conform to your preferences! Accept human variation as long as it does you no harm. If you find it intolerable, either wall it off, or move away from it and build a wall around yourself.

     See also this old tirade. And do have a nice day.

The Last Bastion

     There are days when I oscillate between black despair and a degree of fury so murderous that I can only thank God that I’m too old and frail to act on it. Today is one such day.

     Get a load of this:

     THE FACE OF EVIL.
     This is Alice Mann. She's responsible for the bill a senate committee passed yesterday that would MANDATE MMR vaccination for All kids in MN.
     No exceptions. Even for homeschool.
     This is Effectively saying: vaccination or jail.
     This woman wants to strap down children & inject them w/severely undertested, Big Pharma GMO concoctions directly into their veins...whether parents agree or not.
     That's evil. An authoritarian overreach & body violation so severe, it should make any human being shudder with disgust.
     It goes against the very thing America stands for & holds dear: Freedom.
     Pro tip: If you want people to vaccinate...make your product safer, test it properly, & educate us on why we should do it.
     Do not force it. You evil, evil woman.
     Personally, I don't trust Big Pharma & won't poison my kids. Especially for a natural infection w/a ~100% survival rate, & can be managed naturally.
     So anyway. Anyone know a good state to move to? (I live in MN 😭)

     Minnesota – its legislature, at least – has decided that the Fourth Amendment doesn’t apply to its juvenile residents. Granted that a state that could elect a mannequin like Tim Walz Governor has a collective screw loose, this still goes beyond anything I’ve seen from the Land of 10,000 Lakes to date.

     It might pass legal muster, albeit barely, were this requirement to be applied solely to children enrolled in a “public” school. But to make it unconditional and sweeping is a defiance of the Fourth Amendment’s guarantee of bodily autonomy.

     I’ve ranted before about the power of small groups with narrowly focused agendas. It’s old news; I shan’t do so again this morning. But a passing mention of the incredible power they can wield would not be out of place. The medical-products community is such a group. Apparently the reaction against the mandatory application of vaccines, brought on by the insanity of the COVID-19 debacle, has provoked vaccine vendors to a counterattack. Minnesota, its government having already gone fully anti-individual rights, was a well-chosen entry point.

     Blue-state legislatures throughout America will note this and emulate it – not because of the horror of mumps and rubella or unbounded faith in vaccines, but because bodily privacy is the last bastion of individual rights. If an individual’s physical corpus is not his own, with the right of arbitrary and absolute exclusion that accompanies the right of property, then nothing can be one’s own. Force becomes the sole standard.

     I have no doubt that those who favor this execrable measure will defend it on the grounds of “precedent” and “public health.” But that merely strengthens the indictment of the concept of “public health.” What is it? On what grounds have “medical authorities” been granted an enforceable easement into our children’s bodies? And if it can be defended in the case of school-age children, how would it not apply to all of us, from the cradle to the grave?

     I can feel myself about to start frothing at the mouth, so I’ll close now. Have a nice day.

Our Invisible Servants

     Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, Gentle Reader! As befits one who has “green blood,” here at the Fortress it’s a day of celebration. Bet you didn’t know that Patrick was born in Scotland, kidnapped by Irish raiders, and sold as a slave to a Druid priest. Or that missionaries he ordained were deemed responsible for converting much of Europe to Christianity. But that’s why Patrick is considered high in the Church’s hagiography.

     However, I’m not here to rhapsodize about ol’ Paddy. I’ve been thinking about what most of us take for granted nearly all the time. We hardly ever see it. We almost never think about it. Yet it makes our lives possible and pleasant… until it doesn’t.

     On Sunday evening, the Fortress suffered a “backup.” Water that was intended to run down the kitchen sink drain and thence to the cesspool came back up through the shower drain instead. Very unpleasant. But one doesn’t call a plumber on Sunday, especially after 6:00 PM.

     Monday dawned bright and early. Thank God, Roto-Rooter of Long Island was answering its phone. By 9:00 AM, a tech was here to deal with the problem – and what a problem it was! A significant segment of outfall pipe had clogged so completely that water could no longer pass through it. To compound the damage, that pipe – originally installed in 1959 when the house was built – was close to rotting through. The tech had to take down a piece of wall, cut into the pipe, remove and replace it. He managed it, and before 11 AM, at that. Moreover, he put the wall back up and cleaned up after himself. I wanted to applaud.

     No, it wasn’t cheap. $1500! But that’s the sort of thing one faces when plumbing from 1959 goes bad.

     But it got me thinking about our invisible servants. Plumbing is certainly one such. When it’s working more or less to specification, there’s no reason to think about it. When it fails, as ours did Sunday evening, we start to froth at the mouth. We don’t thank the failed parts for their service as they’re hauled away. Then there’s the cost, about which let no more be said here.

     Plumbing. Heating systems. Floor joists. The foundation itself. The roof overhead. All doing what they were designed to do, continuously, whether or not we take notice. Until they don’t, of course. Then the swearing begins.

     I steeled myself and said a prayer of gratitude. I gave thanks for them all, and promised that I would henceforth try not to take them for granted. I also gave thanks that I could afford the repairs. And I think I’ll be doing more of that in the future.

     God didn’t provide those things to us directly, of course. Rather, He equipped generations of men with the imagination to conceive of them, the skills to design them, the power to fabricate and install them, and – insert extra thanks here – the talent required to diagnose and repair them when they fail. Those men are the “proximate causes” for our invisible servants and why they serve us so faithfully for such long stretches of time. They too deserve our gratitude, even if we have no idea of their names, faces, or the lives they led.

     Other men with talents other than ours are gifts to us. The division-of-labor economy that makes their specialties viable is a gift, as well. The free market economy that smoothly provides them in the necessary quantities is beneath it all, of course… and let’s give special thanks that the Big Parasite (you know what I’m talking about), for all its attempts, hasn’t yet managed to destroy that completely.

     No, it’s not cheap. Neither the products nor the services come to us for free. But let’s also give thanks that, with a few pitiable exceptions, we can afford both to purchase them and to service them when they fail us. That, too, is a gift, for who among us, were he transported to North Korea, Cambodia, Burma, or Laos, would be able to maintain an American standard of living and all the servants that go with it?

     Enough of that for now. My cesspool service has just arrived. I must brace myself for his exactions. If the week continues in this vein, I expect to be bankrupt by this coming Sunday. Pray for me. When you’re finished giving thanks for your plumbing et cetera, that is.

The Seining

     This question is being raised ever more often:

     As I’m one who both reads and writes science fiction, this is often on my mind. Granted that “you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince,” the problem can’t be reduced solely to sifting through the massive heaps of SF being published annually. The science fiction genre has always known great internal variety.

     The origins of SF brought us both gee-whizzy stuff and thoughtful explorations of all kinds of questions. Consider two of the earliest SF writers: Jules Verne and H.G. Wells. These men both wrote SF, but their aims were radically different.

     Verne wrote about marginally imaginable adventures and possibilities, with a focus on the “gee-whiz” factor. If you’ve read his stuff, you can see that at once: From The Earth To The Moon, 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, Master Of The World, and so forth were aimed to dazzle the reader with possibilities that were out of reach when Verne wrote. (Yes, some of them remain so today.)

     By contrast, Wells, a historian by inclination, was much more concerned with societies. His books The First Men in the Moon, The Island of Dr. Moreau, and War of the Worlds invoked pseudoscience to make possible an examination of how people behave, and how societies are transformed, when disturbed by something unprecedented.

     So even at its origin, the science fiction genre knew some internal variety. Yet for reasons beyond the scope of this screed, SF in English was dominated by Gee-Whizzers – with emphasis on space opera and time travel – until the emergence of a single, seminal figure: Robert A. Heinlein.

     Heinlein has been called “the dean of science fiction,” with great justice. He was the first to meld the speculative bent of the Gee-Whizzers and the probing orientation of the Social Analysts with deep characterization and graceful style. To read his pre-1970 novels for the first time is to touch a priceless treasure. The initiate is often overwhelmed by that first acquaintance, in a “Where have you been all my life?” sort of fashion. Even his juveniles, such as Time For The Stars, Citizen of the Galaxy, and Tunnel In The Sky are packed with insights into the psychodynamics of both individuals and societies.

     From Heinlein and several of his near contemporaries (e.g., Isaac Asimov) flowered ever-newer strains of SF. They improved steadily over the years, broadening their outlook as they refined their storytelling powers. No, they weren’t entirely consistent. Then as now, it was what a publisher believed he could sell that determined what would reach the SF reader. Sometimes, a writer whose income was primarily from his stories would feel forced to pander to the devotees of some particular sub-genre. Some had to turn out lowbrow romances; others had to write porn. There were also some “dry spells” during which a large fraction of the SF reading community felt under-served; the “New Wave” period is part of that. Yet today’s SF writer is typically a considerably better writer and storyteller than those of a century ago.

     All the same, he might not write what you want to read.

* * *

     Selecting among writers requires more delving than was once the case. The space-opera buffs don’t want the sociological studies. The time-travel aficionados shrug aside the post-apocalyptic stories. As the varieties multiply, the job gets harder.

     There’s also the related problem of auctorial sensibility. A writer’s values come through his stories no matter how hard he tries. If the reader has important differences with those values, it won’t matter how well told are the writer’s stories. Thus a freedom advocate like your humble Curmudgeon cannot abide socialists such as Octavia Butler or Kim Stanley Robinson. Nor would a hard-driven atheist, violently allergic to any treatment of the supernatural or the spiritual, be able to stomach novels such as these, these, or these. (And that will be my only plug for my own crap.)

     This is a subject in which reviewers could play an important part. Amazon reviews can make or break a writer. But seldom do reviewers spend many pixels on the writer’s sensibility. If his values powerfully shape his stories, reviewers should mention that – and them. But it doesn’t happen often.

     To sum up: the reader must seine diligently among the tens of thousands of SF writers currently publishing to find the kind of material that will please him. It’s a chore, but it’s in service to one’s own satisfaction with the entertainment he selects. And do please review! It’s a service to other potential readers. Also, it’s sometimes invaluable as a catharsis after finishing a novel that proved not to be to one’s taste.

Closets

     Happy Ides of March, Gentle Readers. For some, it wasn’t day to celebrate. But, coming right in between Friday the 13th, Pi Day, John 3:16 Day, and Saint Patrick’s Day, I feel it deserves mention at the very least. But who wants to read about that sort of thing? Onward to today’s reflections on misadventures past and present.

     Yesterday and the day before, I spent assembling… drum roll, please… customer-assembled furniture. That’s never a happy occasion around here; if you’ve done any of it yourself, you’ll know why. But the C.S.O. decreed that “we need more storage space.” This, after filling all my closets and cabinets and a 2000-square-foot basement, to boot. Well, needs must and all that. So I bought two knock-together cabinets from Amazon and suffered through the sequel.

     But it gave me cause to reflect on one of the signal differences between the sexes. I am utterly convinced that when Ug came back to his cave after a long day of mammoth-hunting, Mrs. Ug, after berating him about not leaving his antelope thighbone at the entrance, would thereafter declaim that they – meaning she — needed more storage space.

     Before the C.S.O., my house was relatively spacious. I had five closets, and none of them were much occupied. The basement was vast, empty, and tranquil; I would occasionally practice my roller skating down there. I did not foresee that once we mated, that would no longer be the case. Beth took all that emptiness as a personal challenge.

     The Fortress is quite full now. All of it: the living spaces, the closets, the basement, my barn, and the shed I purchased last spring. I didn’t fill it up. I assure you of that. I had almost nothing to do with it, except for paying the bills. My part is to fetch things from top shelves, pry things out of overfilled cabinets, and trip over the dogs.

     Men don’t do this sort of thing. We have our necessities and our luxuries, of course. For some, it’s books, or records; for others, it’s guns, or skiing gear, or fishing tackle. But give us a spacious home with ample closets and it tends to stay that way.

     (Gentlemen: This is why, should you marry a woman who already has her own home, you should insist that she keep it. You should also insist that she give you a key to it. That way, when she moves all her crap into your home, you’ll have somewhere to retreat. Trust me on this; the alternative is an RV in the back yard, and she’d fill that just as swiftly.)

     For the majority of women, security seems to mean possessions. A case of the worst sort will heap her things up around her until she can no longer see the walls. But even a relatively sane woman (5 to 7 crazy at most – cf. this handy reference) will completely fill the available space, and will constantly hector you about “that pile of junk you keep for no good reason.”

     So now we have two brand new cabinets, totaling forty cubic feet of storage… and one of them is already full and the C.S.O. has plans for the second one. I, for lack of an alternative, must just sit back and watch. But I plan to put a deadbolt lock on the door to my tiny closet. I’ve caught my sweetie glancing covetously in its direction a little too often lately.

     What’s that you ask? No, she doesn’t have a key to the gun safe, either. And she never will. But I have more than one reason for that.

     Have a nice day.

What We Walked Away From

     I was going to take today off – I built “customer-assembled furniture” yesterday – but when I encountered the following, I knew I’d have to write about it:

     Imagine how your life as a woman could be without the influence of feminism -
     You grow up with married parents. They stay together through thick and thin and work to keep their marriage harmonious because divorce was never an option.
     You have a big tight-knit family with several brothers and sisters.
     Your mother and grandmother teach you how to be a great homemaker, and you get married in your late teens or early 20s. You never have to waste any time in college or go into debt for a useless degree.
     Your parents and extended family helped you find a great husband who provides for you and your children. Your marriage also lasts a lifetime and divorce is never on the table.
     You're head-over-heels in love with your husband because you never became jaded by going through a string of romances and heartbreaks before you met him. Your parents taught you to date with purpose and find someone who was compatible by asking the right questions before getting emotionally attached, and taught you to save sex for marriage so you never got used by men who didn't want to marry you.
     All the women in your family are also housewives and the older women visit you often and help you with your children and housework, so you're never overwhelmed with motherhood when your children are young.
     All the women in your neighborhood are housewives too, so you're friends with many of the women in your neighborhood and get together with their families often.
     None of the kids in your family ever step foot in a daycare center or public school. You have an unbreakable bond with your parents, grandparents, and children.
     No one in your family ever steps foot in a nursing home because everyone is taken care of by family in their older years.

     Please think about it for a minute or two. Then come back here.

* * *

     The sexual revolution was the only one known to history in which everyone lost.

     Time was, I thought it contained a healthful element: a liberation of sorts. Even today, I’m unable to disavow that idea completely. But it went badly wrong. Our posterity had better study it and learn from it.

     It wasn’t just one thing, either. There were a lot of flaws in the ideas of the Sixties and early Seventies. They flowed together and became a huge wave that’s crashed down upon us. What we styled “liberation” became the casting-off of all restraint, including the restraints of humility and good sense. They were slowed by the AIDS panic of the late Seventies and Eighties, but when it became clear that AIDS was pretty much a disease of homosexuals and intravenous drug users, they came roaring back at full speed.

     We ruined ourselves for one another. We became untrustworthy, calculators and sensualists with little regard for what our forebears had learned from theirs. What better things we had within us, we cast out as impediments to the pursuit of pleasure.

     We ruined ourselves. Then we went on to ruin our children.

     I’m glad you can’t see me just now.

* * *

     Strange things have come about because of our heedlessness and crudity. I could go into gruesome details, but I’m not up to that this morning. Consider yourself spared a litany of a sort you’ve seen from me before. (Feel free to thank the customer-assembled furniture I spent yesterday assembling.) But I will mention one thing that’s become unpleasantly obvious, to me at least.

     Very young women on social media are actively pursuing much older men. That includes men in their sixties and seventies. Men who are firmly married. Yes, men like me.

     This was almost unknown two or three decades ago. It’s not completely unprecedented – there have always been fortune hunters among both sexes – but they were both uncommon and disdained. To compound the ironies, these young women seem largely uninterested in money or status. They want old men because… drum roll, please… we’re old!

     No doubt some of my coevals preen themselves over this new phenomenon. Some probably exploit those young women as shamelessly as any young rake. But when the face in the mirror looks like something that sleeps under a bridge and the body beneath it makes the numbers on the bathroom scale spin like the wheels of a slot machine, complete with jackpot bells, you can’t kid yourself.

     So why? What makes us their preferred targets?

* * *

     There’s a known, well understood tendency among older men to idealize “the good old days.” For most of us, what we’re lamenting is our lost youth and what it enabled us to do. But some of today’s laments have another genesis. They’re for times when things were simpler, when we could believe that we had some grasp of “how things work.” And while that, too, might be an idealization, it’s surely something men of all ages would value.

     The typical man of middle to late years can’t fool himself that he knows “how things work.” He’s had all such pretensions beaten out of him. (That process kills some, embitters others, and turns still others into curmudgeons.) In particular, he’s aware that he doesn’t grasp contemporary relations between the sexes. But just four or five decades ago…

     Never mind. I know how tiresome this sort of thing can get. Besides, I have some sprucing-up to do. I have a lunch date! It’s a young woman who just moved to Long Island. She wants to talk to me about what life was like in the Sixties. It’s as good a reason to get out of the house as any, don’t you think?

     Have a nice day.