War News

     I could write about any of many things today, but the envelope into which the most recent events fit is the Second American Civil War.

     Minnesota and California have practically declared themselves to be in insurrection. Excuse me, what did you say? President Trump cut a deal with Tim Walz? That’s nice. What’s been happening since then?

     The insurrectionists are largely organized, though some are responding spontaneously. Some are native to the districts they trouble; others are bused in. They’re young and old, armed and unarmed.

     They’re unified in one thing only: their opposition to the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agency’s attempt to locate, detain, and expel illegal aliens. President Trump has given ICE carte blanche to fulfill its duties. Some of what’s happened has struck even conservative observers as excessive. The insurrectionists have capitalized on the two deaths to date by shouting “Nazis!” at peak volume… mostly at ordinary private citizens.

     There’s little point in trying to change the label. The American Left has gone to war against the Administration, the immigration laws, and the electoral system. What more is required to deem the Left in a state of insurrection?

     The Left has gone “all in.” It has fully mobilized its financial and personal resources for the conflict. The Democrat Party, while giving lip service to “the rule of law,” is aligned with the insurrectionists. Indeed, its hope of political survival rests on their success.

     There are only two ways to quell a rebellion: by surrendering to it, or by defeating it. Don’t expect President Trump to surrender to it. But defeating it will require more dramatic action than merely having ICE agents detain suspected illegal aliens and deport the ones who can’t establish that they’re here legally.

     Blood has already been spilled. There will be more.

     I hope the National Guard need not be dispatched to the loci of insurrection with free-to-fire rules of engagement. But it’s a real possibility. Were President Trump to federalize them and send them forth, would they be willing to obey his orders as Commander-in-Chief? It might require them to act against people they know, their neighbors.

     This isn’t Armageddon yet. But things are not looking good. Stay tuned.

     (For my views on the illegal-alien crisis, see this Baseline Essay.)

Hippee Skippee!

My laptop died last week. It was a quick death, no lingering.

Since then, I've been using my Fire tablet. Its not all that powerful, but for the money, was a good bargain last Amazon Day.

I tried using an old Chromebook my brother had passed on to me. It's really slow, running Windows 10, and without the hardware to be updated. And, it's a small complaint, but no touchscreen. Until you have to go backwards, you don't understand what an annoyance that is.

I just checked the status of my new laptop order and it will be arriving today. Likely not until late in the day.

It's not a new machine, but a refurbished HP. But, for $200, it doesn't have to be great.

Snow Day

Forgive me, Gentle Reader. I'm pooped.

See you tomorrow, I hope.

The Betrayal Of The Meliorists

     It’s exciting and gratifying to see so many people on X talking about C. S. Lewis’s masterpiece That Hideous Strength. There’s a general sense that the Satanic dystopian England Lewis depicts in his novel is “where we are now” – a sense that is largely correct. But the understanding of why and how we got here / there remains to jell.

     Which of course calls your Curmudgeon into the fray.

* * *

     Time was, there was a movement called “Progressivism.” (Don’t laugh.) It was largely propelled by Christian religious sentiments that had been twisted into political activism – and for that perversion, twisted is exactly the right word. Another word for that movement, one that isn’t heard much today, is meliorism.

     Meliorism is a largely emotional position: the meliorist “wants to make things better.” For whom? Why, for everyone! He loves a particular vision of progress: a vision in which all desires have been satisfied, and all fears have been dispelled.

     Yes, Gentle Reader: meliorism implies a total detachment from reality. But the meliorist doesn’t allow that to trouble him. The vision is all!

     If meliorists weren’t gullible, they might be tolerable. But they are gullible. They’re easily swayed by the promises of politicians. And politicians are willing to promise them anything. (No, they don’t give them Arpege. )

     The politician, by definition, is one who seeks power over others. That and nothing else is what politics is about. What he promises you is not truly his objective. His objective is power. What brings him power, he will promote; what diminishes his power, he will oppose.

     The politician, therefore, must not be assumed a sincere meliorist. But he relies on the support of meliorists to put and keep him in power.

* * *

     Lewis’s nightmare vision of England in That Hideous Strength is premised on popular acceptance based on the unwillingness of ordinary Englishmen to object to melioristic initiatives. The N.I.C.E., a government program, is facially melioristic. In reality, it’s a grab for total power over everyone and everything on Earth.

     Contemporary Britain has some features in common with Lewis’s tale, and some that depart from it. Lewis didn’t imagine a huge influx of culturally immiscible immigrants, for example. But the central commonality, which makes all the other horrors – fictional and real – possible, is meliorism as a premise and political exploitation of that premise to extend and deepen the power of the State.

     Every State that lasts for a significant period must be founded on superior force. But to acquire that force, the masters of the State must persuade their subjects to allow it to them. The chief tools of persuasion are deceit and fear.

     It doesn’t matter whether the initial set of politicians sincerely want to “help” some subset of the people, or to ameliorate some nagging condition that affects all. Once the State has accumulated unopposable power, men willing to do anything for power will displace the original, supposedly sincere ones. For the sincere ones would balk at methods their challengers willingly adopt – including lethal violence. So nominally decent and trustworthy politicians are steadily replaced by men who observe no moral limits.

     Britain’s national government fell into the meliorist premise many decades ago. Each generation of power-wielders was succeeded by a harder-nosed, less scrupled set. But even as the quality of its politicians declined, the verbal emphasis on meliorism never waned; indeed, it seems to have increased. The power-wielders promise, hands on their hearts, that We’re here to help – to serve! If any of them really mean it, I’m unable to name them.

     Americans should not look at Britain with scorn. The same progression is in effect here. Leaving aside the Great Maverick, President Donald Trump, I’m hard pressed to name a high-ranking politician whom I would trust.

* * *

     In 1962, Joseph Clark, one of Pennsylvania’s U.S. Senators, was asked to define liberalism as he understood it. Senator Clark replied:

     “A liberal,” he writes, “[is] one who believes in utilizing the full force of government for the advancement of social, political and economic justice at the municipal, state, national and international levels.”

     That’s political meliorism straight up, with no chaser. Whether or not Clark was sincere about his aims, he was consistent. One of his enthusiasms was for the establishment of a world government to which national governments would be subordinate. He pursued that aim as a member and president of World Federalists U.S.A.

     Clark was very popular. His successors in the United States Senate have varied in that regard, but they’ve all given copious lip service to meliorism. And they’ve worked diligently to expand and deepen the power of the federal government. Republicans, unable to oppose political meliorism effectively, have largely endorsed it. Which is why I joke that the GOP’s true platform is “We Can Do It Cheaper!”

* * *

     Power over others always ends up in the hands of those who want it most. As Friedrich Hayek told us in The Road To Serfdom, over time the progression brings men to power who recognize no moral limits, regardless of the platitudes they mouth. Their sole aim is power: getting it, keeping it, and increasing it.

     George Orwell told us what follows:

     ‘How does one man assert his power over another, Winston?’
     Winston thought. ‘By making him suffer,’ he said.
     ‘Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. Do you begin to see then what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery and torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world that will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress toward more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on love and justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotion except fear, rage, and self-abasement. Everything else will be destroyed--everything!...If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face--forever.’

     O’Brien was free to say that to Winston Smith because he had Winston totally in his power. But outside the Ministry of Love, the Party pretended that its governance was in the best interests of the people of Oceania. It had to lie and demand doublethink to do so, but the meliorist pretense was always there.

* * *

     I could go on, but I think the point stands. He who wants power over you will always tell you he intends to use it in your interests. Sometimes he’ll be sincere… but his successors will be less so, and on it will go until the nation is under a Stalin. Clive Staples Lewis has shown us the face behind the meliorist mask in a work of compelling power. Yes, his heroes invoked supernatural aid to cleanse Britain of the N.I.C.E. and its works. Perhaps that makes That Hideous Strength too fanciful for some. But Lewis’s depiction of the N.I.C.E. and its Satanic evil remains one of speculative fiction’s highest achievements.

     To the political meliorists who look upon the N.I.C.E. as a template for their own advancement in power, I offer no apologies.

The Last Of The Really Fluffy Towels

     [This story first appeared at Liberty’s Torch V2.0, on September 29, 2021. – FWP]

* * * The Last Of The Really Fluffy Towels

     Alex Smith dried himself as best he could, scowled at the sandpaper texture of the burlap towel, wrapped it around his waist and cinched it, and headed to the bedroom to garb himself for the day. Maura looked up from her book. Her expression was curious, as if he’d done something not to be expected, possibly even unprecedented.
     Well, she doesn’t really know me yet.
     He smiled. “What’s the matter?”
     She shook her head minutely. “Oh, nothing.”
     “You’ve already seen me in all my Neanderthal glory, haven’t you?”
     She grimaced. “Of course. I was just wondering...no, forget it.”
     “Oh no!” he said. “Now you’ve piqued my curiosity. What was the look about?”
     “When I looked at you?”
     “Yeah, that look.”
     She hesitated. Her expression suggested that she’d taken a mouthful of something nasty.
     “Come on,” he said. “I know we’ve only been together for a night and a morning, but still...!”
     Her eyebrows rose. “Still what?”
     “Well, still you can trust that I won’t explode if you have something critical to say, can’t you?”
     “Yeah.” She looked a little away. “It was the towel.”
     “Hm?”
     “It was just...”
     “Yesssss...?”
     “You don’t have to, you know, conceal yourself from me,” she said. “As you’ve already observed, I have seen you naked.”
     “Oh.” He looked down at himself. “Habit, I suppose.”
     “You said you’d been alone here for years,” she said.
     “I have. So?”
     “So who’ve you been concealing yourself from?”
     He winced.
     Good point.
     “Well, yes,” he said after a moment. “But I wasn’t born here. I had parents and sisters. I got it drilled into me pretty early that it was unacceptable to parade around the house naked.”
     “Yeah,” she said. “I get it. But it’s not necessary now. And those towels...how can you stand to have one wrapped tight around you like that?”
     “Oh. Yeah, it is kinda scratchy.”
     Doesn’t dry very well, either.
     “So feel free to, ah, relieve yourself of it,” she said. She set her book aside, pulled back the bedcovers, rose and ambled toward him. “I like looking at you.”
     He admired her petite, trim form afresh as she put her fingers to where he’d cinched the towel at his waist, gently pulled it away, and let it fall to the floor. “And I don’t like the idea of Oscar and his side boys—” She glanced pointedly at his genitals “—of whom I’ve already grown fond, getting all scratched up for no good reason.”
     He grinned and took her hands. “You win.” He kissed her gently. “Would it have been an issue if the towel were nice and soft?”
     She made a who-knows gesture. “Less of one, I guess. I mean, I’d still like to look at you.”
     “Thank you.” He kissed her again. “May I offer you breakfast? I have a couple of soy cakes that aren’t too old, and an ounce or so of corn syrup for them.”
     “Okay. But,” she said with a mock-severe look, “I forbid you to eat your breakfast naked.”
     “Oh? Why is that?”
     “Because the splendor of you would impede my ability to savor so luxurious a repast.”
     He laughed and went to the closet for his robe.

#

     They sat at his tiny dinette table lingering over the meager meal, doing their best to prolong it into something worthy of the name. The thought irritated Alex briefly. He had nothing else to eat in the apartment. The emptiness of his cupboard griped him more than it would have had Maura not chosen to stay the night. If it weren’t that his new ration card was scheduled to arrive that morning, the little soy cake would be the last thing he would eat that day.
     “Alex?”
     He looked up from his plate. “Yes, dear?”
     “I know someone.”
     Her deliberate, gently emphasized full stop immediately piqued his interest.
     “Always good to know...people,” he said. “What brings whoever it is to mind?”
     She locked eyes with him. “Towels.”
     “Oh.” He carefully returned his gaze to his plate. “Who runs it?”
     She shook her head. “Not like that,” she said. “It’s just someone I know. His name is Phil Marsden.” She looked away. “He’s pretty old.”
     The unspoken word trader seemed to hang around her like a cloak of mist.
     Old people are getting to be few and a long way between.
     “Do you think he might need something?” he said.
     She shrugged. “Who doesn’t, these days?” But her eyes and voice said of course.
     And the regime has just cut rations for anyone over sixty to half of the standard allotment.
     “Well,” he said as casually as he could manage, “if there’s some way we can help him, I certainly wouldn’t be averse to it.”
     The entrance monitor chimed the tone that indicates that a delivery had just come through the slot. Alex stabbed the last fragment of his soy cake, mopped up the drops of syrup that remained, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed laboriously, and rose. “Two seconds.”
     A small brown envelope that lay on the floor behind the door. He stooped to pick it up. The return address announced the arrival of his coming week’s ration card.
     Thank God.
     He returned to the kitchenette and made to reseat himself.
     Maura said “Alex...”
     He froze, half seated. “Yes?”
     “I often don’t go all the way through my ration allotment in the course of the week.”
     “Really?” he said.
     But they hardly keep. The soy cakes were less than four days old and they were already almost too tough to eat.
     She didn’t need to say what she was doing with the uneaten portion, and he didn’t need to guess.
     She’s been giving whatever she doesn’t eat to Marsden.
     He glanced at the envelope that contained his new ration card, still clutched in his hand.
     “I think...” he said, and faltered.
     “Yes?”
     “I think we can help Mr. Marsden,” he said. “Do you think he might be able to help, ah, someone else?”
     She smiled. “Why don’t we pay him a visit and find out?”

#

     Phil Marsden was very tall, and very old. Alex estimated him to be about six feet four and in his early eighties, if not older still. He was emaciated, no longer able to fill out his clothes. His tunic hung from his shoulders like a tent. His trousers were held up by an elastic belt drawn frighteningly tight. But even if the spareness of his figure could be ignored or explained, his skeletal hands and arms and his skull-like face could not.
     He’s starving to death. Whatever Maura has denied herself to give him, it hasn’t been nearly enough.
     He was acutely aware of the fresh ration card in his pocket. A radical thought came unbidden and unwelcome.
     If he were careful, he could stretch my card and what Maura can spare into two weeks’ nutrition.
     Wait a minute: what would I eat?
     Yet the thought would not leave him alone.
     “I haven’t got much left,” the old man was saying. “Just my clothes, that love seat in the corner, and what my wife left behind when she passed. But it’s all on the table.”
     “Mr. Marsden,” Maura murmured, “did Mrs. Marsden maintain two sets of bath towels, by any chance?”
     Marsden’s eyes lit with a knowing light. “As a matter of fact, she did. I always wondered why. We didn’t need two sets. Just to wash one regularly every Saturday, which she did.” He rose from his battered leather armchair. “Get it for you if you’re interested.”
     “We are,” Maura said.”
     Ninety seconds later Marsden had trotted out a pair of large, fluffy bath sheets in a delicate pink. Alex fought back the urge to grab them and flee.
     Maura flashed an inquiring look at Alex.
     He hesitated, then nodded.
     “I can see that even with what I’ve been saving for you, you’re not getting enough to eat,” Maura said. “Would you consider a ration card—a standard allotment ration card—to be worth one of those towel sets?”
     Marsden tried to hem and haw and dicker, but he couldn’t keep the naked lust for calories out of his eyes.
     “Mr. Marsden,” Maura said, “it’s our one and only offer.”
     Marsden’s resistance crumbled. He held out the bath sheets like an offering of alms. Alex took them and handed the old man his new ration card.
     “Thank you,” Marsden whispered.
     Alex nodded. He and Maura made their exit.

#

     “I can’t go without eating for a whole week,” Alex said.
     “You won’t have to,” Maura said. She fondled the bath sheet in her lap and hummed with pleasure. “I can get by on half rations. You’ll get the rest.”
     Alex started to reply, checked himself.
     I guess we’re an item.
     The towel in his hands was the softest, fluffiest piece of fabric he’d ever encountered. The loops of terry stood out at least a half inch from the base weave. He could imagine having it wrapped around him after a shower, thirstily soaking up the moisture that lingered on his skin, and shivered with anticipation.
     Probably the last of its kind anywhere in the city.
     I’ll be pretty damned hungry after seven days on half rations, but I’ll live. Then it’ll be back to the previous regimen.
     It’ll be worth it.
     “All right,” he said. “I suppose you’ll want to keep one of these at your place.”
     “I would,” Maura said, “but it was your ration card we traded for them. So only if it’s all right with you. Or,” she said with a sudden lilt, “I could do my showering here.”
     He summoned his gallantry.
     “You could,” he said. “You’d be very welcome, always assuming the city doesn’t clamp restrictions on water usage. But even so, go ahead and take one home. I only need one, and we’ll get by well enough on one if you ever decide to stay the night again.”
     She smiled brightly. “Thank you, Alex.”
     He was in the process of framing a courtly demurrer when the apartment door burst open.
     The shattered doorframe revealed Alex’s worst nightmare: two large Community Monitors in full armor, including the blast-hardened full-face shields that guarded their identities while allowing them a hundred eighty degrees of outward vision. The two strode in, stun batons at the ready, to confront Alex and Maura.
     “Citizen,” the one poised before Alex droned, “a local informant has reported observing you entering this dwelling in possession of luxury textile goods unavailable from the government’s dispensaries.” He indicated the towel in Alex’s lap. “That was not acquired recently. Was it an inheritance?”
     Alex fought to control his shaking. “It was.”
     The Enforcer snatched the towel from him and tossed it well behind him. “Then if, without looking at it, you can describe it accurately in all particulars, you will be permitted to keep it.”
     Alex darted a glance at Maura. The Enforcer that stood before her had done the same.
     The end of a stun baton rose to prod the underside of his jaw. “Well, citizen?”
     Alex could only manage a quavering croak.
     “We’ll be confiscating them, then.” The Enforcer turned and picked up the bath sheets. He and his partner marched out of the apartment, leaving it open and utterly violable.
     Alex turned eyes of woe to Maura. She appeared perfectly composed, far better in command of herself than was he.
     “I couldn’t—”
     She held up a hand.
     “I know. It’s all right.”
     He nodded, face crimson with humiliation and shame.
     They won’t turn them in for destruction. They’ll keep one each.
     “Alex?” she said. “Come stay with me tonight.”
     “You would have me, after this?”
     “Of course.” Her eyes were sad but understanding. “Everyone knows how unwise it is to resist them.”
     He rose. “Give me a minute.”
     He went to his bedroom, pulled a fresh shirt and a change of underwear out of his tiny bureau, stuffed them into a brown paper bag, and returned to the little living room. She rose as he approached.
     “Let’s go,” she said.
     He nodded, and they left.

==<O>==

     Copyright © 2021 Francis W. Porretto. All Rights Reserved Worldwide.

I Didn’t Expect This

     The nation is agog over the rocketing price of silver. Despite my interest in the money metals and my frequent advice to my Gentle Readers to put some of their savings into gold and silver, I must admit that the recent sharp increases trouble me. I’m caught between possible explanations.

     Silver was the money metal of the United States for the nation’s first century. It satisfies the chief requirements of a money:

• It’s durable;
• It’s easily recognized;
• It’s divisible without loss;
• It possesses intrinsic value.

     So possessing a store of silver, in a time of inflation, is a good thing. Should the current inflationary practices of the federal government “run wild,” as happened in Weimar Germany and contemporary Zimbabwe, silver will be negotiable. Indeed, given current valuations, silver is a more practical store of value than gold.

     But let’s look at that phrase current valuations a bit more closely. There’s no central authority decreeing “This shall be the dollar price of an ounce of silver.” What Kitco and other sources tell us about the price of silver – or anything else, really – is the price paid for it at the most recent trades. How much silver was purchased at that price? That’s not reported. Are there still buyers offering that many dollars for an ounce of silver? That too can be hard to discern.

     It’s the same with stocks, in case you were wondering.

     The question uppermost in my mind, and probably in many others, is whether silver’s explosive price increase is telling us about something that’s coming, or about something that’s already happened.

     It’s possible that up to now, the dollar price of silver has been well below its “real” exchange value. After all, recent Administrations have created a lot of new currency and credit to support their spending, while the dollar price of silver stayed relatively stable. So silver’s price could be “catching up” to that spell of high inflation.

     The alternative is that those driving silver’s price are aware that something on the horizon would greatly depress the dollar’s purchasing power. Perhaps it’s fear of the U.S. purchase of Greenland. Or it could be that the Administration is pondering the repudiation of the national debt. The dollar would be badly shaken by either of those events, and they’re not the only possibilities.

     I intend to investigate “institutional” purchases. If the large creditors and debtors in our economy are buying silver, we must infer that their analysts see either an opportunity or a looming fiscal disaster. The former is for currency speculators alone, and therefore not for us small fry. The latter would justify a “flight to safety” of the sort that silver represents.

     But let’s imagine that the dollar price of silver is being set by the purchases not of institutions but of individual Americans. That would tell quite a different story, one summarized by economist Gary North and quoted in Robert Ringer’s How You Can Find Happiness During the Collapse of Western Civilization:

     When a majority of depositors become convinced that a majority of depositors have become convinced that a majority of depositors are going to try to get their money out simultaneously, a majority of depositors start trying to get their money out simultaneously.

     “Getting your money out” really means doing whatever you can to preserve your purchasing power. If the dollar is losing purchasing power as we watch, then the sensible thing to do is to “get out of dollars:” to extract whatever purchasing power your dollar-denominated assets still possess and put it into a more stable store of value. In short, it would signal that ordinary Americans have lost confidence in the dollar and have started “a run on the bank.”

     I’ll be looking further into this. Stay tuned.

The Plausibility Chestnut

     We who write speculative fiction are regularly besieged by critics over plausibility. “Is that really possible?” they ask. “Could it happen in the ‘real world?’” Sometimes, the answer is “No.” At others, the answer is “No, but that’s irrelevant.” And at others, the answer is “What’s this ‘real world’ you’re talking about?”

     Speculative fiction is fiction that speculates! I should have thought that was obvious on its face. But then, obvious really means overlooked, doesn’t it?

     Critics and their hangers-on do a lot of overlooking.

     I got lambasted for Christine D’Alessandro. I got it again for Althea Morelon. The exceptional nature of those characters seemed irrelevant to my critics’ determination to pick nits. I can’t help wondering what kind of crap Malorie Cooper has had to put up with.

     Now, there is a downside to depicting super-competent female warriors. Most women simply aren’t equipped for combat, whether melee-style or ranged. They have disadvantages in strength, speed, endurance, and the ability to tolerate serious injury and keep fighting. But there are exceptions, whose exceptional nature ought to be obvious… oh, there I go again. A full-scale, lifelong dedication to physical conditioning and the acquisition of combat skills might conceivably result in a warrior as capable as Charlize Theron’s Lorraine Broughton, though we wouldn’t expect it of Taylor Swift or Sydney Sweeney.

     We certainly shouldn’t expect it of the Girl Next Door. Nor should we expect the Girl Next Door to be ready and able to protect herself against real-world male predators.

     The Girl Next Door should carry some defensive equipment, to be sure – a pepper spray, a Ken Onion assisted folding knife and a KelTec P11 with two extra mags strike me as about right for ladies in the beleaguered Northeast – but she should also expect the assistance of masculine help and call out for it at once. She should not carry a broadsword. (Do you know how hard it is to accessorize those things?)

     But we were discussing fiction.

* * *

     Genuinely entertaining, uplifting fiction cannot be about dead flies in the bottom of cracked teacups. It also cannot be about someone’s angst or his unfulfilled yearnings. Things must happen. Characters worth paying attention to must be challenged, must rise to the occasion, and must prevail, albeit at a price. Anything else is too dreary for me, and – I suspect – for most other readers of fiction.

     My sort of fiction requires heroes: characters of great stature, or at least great potential. Such people, male or female, are exceptions. You won’t find them on streetcorners. And if they cluster in a wholly fictional county, what of it? Birds of a feather and all that, remember?

     So plausibility, in the strict, real-world sense, must sidle over to make room for fictional heroes. There are some in the real world, to be sure, but they’re few. They don’t get a lot of air time or column-inches. Which, semi-ironically, is why there’s a stronger demand for fictional heroes than in many years.

     Of course, for those who disagree, there’s always “literary” fiction.

Uncorrectable

WARNING!
The following piece will contain a common profanity.
For today, I found that profanity unavoidable.
Read on at your own risk. * * *

     There are two kinds of people: those who believe that there are two kinds of people, and those who don’t.

     Yes, yes: it’s an old gag. But I’m an old man; what do you expect from the likes of me? Anyway, I got up humming an old song, one that everyone has heard but is light-years distant from “the charts” in our time: this one. Being analytically inclined and surrounded by people desperate for an explanation for our current state of FUBARity, I gave it some thought.

     What’s that? You don’t understand FUBARity? Aw, c’mon! FUBAR is older than I am! FUBAR is a companion concept to SNAFU: “Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.” That droll assessment is commonplace these days:

• We know things are fucked up;
• We also know that fucked-upedness is “normal;”
• So we relax.

     But we’re not supposed to relax when things are fucked up. We’re supposed to fix things. Common though it may be, fucked-upedness is an undesirable state. So let’s get to work!

     Wait: there’s a missing step in the above: We can’t just blindly “get to work;” we must first understand why things are fucked up. Where is the error, the mistake, the wrong turning that led us away from acceptable conditions into the land of the fucked-up? We must isolate that first and foremost.

     So we try, and are repeatedly thwarted. Our search leads us to people much like ourselves, except that… well, they aren’t. They don’t respond to citations of that essential ingredient in all investigations of fucked-upedness: reality. We shower them with actual data drawn from the experiences of men and nations, and they dismiss it! They talk around it; they shrug it off; they change the subject, hurl imprecations, or both. There’s no getting them to live in the same universe as we do.

     Some of them counter-shower us, sometimes with inane platitudes, but at other times with “studies.” The conclusions of those studies strike us as perverse. But given our inclination to respect systematic investigations of any sort, we trace those studies back to the people and institutions that emitted them, and we find… more fucked-upedness!

     There’s an enraging circularity about it all. It can drive a sane man mad, a peaceable man violent. We resist those inclinations and try again. After all, we’re talking to people much like ourselves. They must be reachable! But nothing changes.

     Presently we give up. We accept that though we may have found the problem – indeed, we most certainly have found it – we cannot fix it without violating the “rights” of those people who, after all, are much like ourselves. We shy back from the required means. We look for other measures, but in vain.

     For what we have found is FUBARity: that condition of being which is “Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.”

     There’s a small dissonance in there. We recognize the fucked-upedness; it’s those who suffer it that don’t recognize it. But fixing the condition is what matters. Fixing it eludes us because of our respect for their “rights.”

     Our frustration knows no bounds.

* * *

     It’s time for a quote. This is one for which my source is hearsay. I’m told that the person who emitted it said it at a public appearance that I did not attend. I trust the person who repeated it to me, so I’ll give it to you as he did:

     “Savages have no rights.” – Ayn Rand

     Enormous dismay ensues. No rights at all? Not even the right to life? That can’t be right! Surely there’s some escape clause here.

     But there isn’t. The problem lies in the meaning of that term savages.

     A savage, in Rand’s lexicon, is someone who doesn’t recognize or honor rights as such. His ethical metaphysic is “What can I get away with?” Dangerous as individuals, savages are genocidally lethal when they band together. And there are bands of them ravaging our land even now.

     Savages yield only before overwhelming force. But we shy back from using force against them, because… well, they have rights! The right to life, at least. So running one over is out.

     But that yields the street to the savages. Unacceptable! What, then? Drive around them? Well, if possible… which it often isn’t. To get to where we must go, force will be required.

     You cannot concede rights to others who don’t concede yours.

* * *

     As you can surely tell by now, I’m not talking about the stereotype of a savage. That “black Sambo” figure in a loincloth with a bone through his nose blocks a lot of people’s thinking. I’m talking about people much like us in appearance and overall conduct, but who are willing to do anything and everything to get what they want politically. It doesn’t matter to them whose rights they must trample, or whether the end they seek is fatally unstable. They get their satisfactions from their political stances and those who share them. That’s the sustenance they seek: acknowledgement from their sort that they’re “good people.” Compared to that, what relevance has reality?

     There’s the core of FUBARity: it cannot be corrected by reference to reality. Those people who look like us and (mostly) dress like us yearn for acknowledgement that they’re good people much too strongly to be deflected by reason or evidence. Reality is, for them, an obstacle rather than a reference point. It must be defeated, and it will! Surely older and wiser heads who share their views are already working on it.

     I could go on, but I don’t think there’s a need. In closing, please have a look at two tweets: This one, which fancifully compares those people just like us to “large language models;” and this one, which invokes a term from systems theory for the self-referential defensive behavior of an institution that resolves to ignore reality to the extent it threatens the internal logic of the institution itself. Yes, they’re a bit fucked-up themselves, and they complicate something that’s really quite simple, but they illustrate how far reasonable people will go to explain the impenetrability of FUBARity.

     Have a nice day.

The Self-Correcting System

     When you break the big laws, you do not get liberty; you do not even get anarchy. You get the small laws. – G. K. Chesterton

     The Holy Grail of all designers, no matter what they design, is the self-correcting system. Decades spent in systems design and implementation taught me how ardently such systems are pursued… and how impossible they are.

     Actually, that’s an overstatement. A self-correcting system might be possible… if it had no inputs and no outputs, and if all it ever does is correct itself. It can’t do anything else, because that would require a “monitor and correct” subsystem to monitor and correct the “worker” subsystem. That in turn would require yet another “monitor and correct” subsystem to do the same for the other subsystems, which would require yet another “monitor and correct” subsystem, which would require yet another “monitor and correct” subsystem… oh, forget it.

     Any system that couples to the world outside itself will eventually break down. A system that doesn’t couple to the outside world is useless. Toss it into Plato’s Cave and forget about it.

     Man’s societies can’t be made perfectly self-correcting. Our attempts to do so have always had vulnerabilities. The most important of those vulnerabilities – the one that’s always targeted by the agents of destruction – is the set of rules that defines what it means for the system to work.

     Some such rules are made into laws. No murder! No stealing! No contract-breaking! No false witness! Simple rules like those are widely understood. Yes, some will break them, but as long as the overwhelming majority continue to believe in and support them, that majority will serve to correct the lawbreakers.

     The society will break down if the number of rulebreakers grows so large that the work of correcting them won’t allow the normal functions of society to continue. The more correcting is required, the less time, material, and energy remain for getting other things done. Imagine a society where 50% of people are criminals and the other 50% are law enforcement.

     But that’s not the only way a society can break down. It can also fail if too many rules become laws.

* * *

     Jamie Wilson has produced a fine, compendious piece on the importance of etiquette to liberty and civilization. The heart of the matter:

     When politeness weakens, institutions compensate. They add rules and procedures and signage, training, scripts, escalation protocols, and enforcement mechanisms. This expansion is not driven by malice, but by necessity. When informal, community- and self-enforced norms fail, formal control rushes in to fill the gap.
     In high-trust environments, rules are sparse because people regulate themselves. Courtesy absorbs friction before it escalates, apologies work, discretion works, and flexibility is possible because bad faith is the exception, not the expectation.
     As trust erodes, however, discretion becomes dangerous. Zero-tolerance policies replace judgment, and escalation replaces conversation. Enforcement by bureaucracies and government structures replaces negotiation. The result is a paradox familiar to anyone living in a bureaucratized society: the more formal rules are added, the worse public behavior becomes. Not because rules are evil, but because rules cannot substitute for internal restraint.

     But “formal control” – i.e., enforcement of norms by law – can’t do the job of self-control. In the nature of things, it cannot be enough. And self-control has been under sustained attack since the end of World War I.

* * *

     Chesterton’s glum reference to the “small laws” doesn’t address the problem of enforcement. He probably felt he didn’t need to go there; it “should” be “obvious.” It’s plain enough from the history of overregulated societies.

     The dismissal of prior norms for public conduct has produced a situation in which many Americans find going out of their homes distasteful or worse. The dismissal of norms for private conduct, which many hardcore libertarians are wont to shrug aside, may be even worse. It’s especially worrisome in a society that upholds the concept of privacy as a right.

     We’ve had some ghastly examples of what can occur behind closed doors. Jeffrey Dahmer. Ed Gein. Ted Bundy. There are many others that are less famous.

     Nothing could have stopped any of those men other than a forceful invasion of their private lives. Others are among us that have similarly decided that there are no rules, and we don’t know who or where they are. We won’t know until some mistake reveals their horrors. Matters have become serious enough that we must suspect that there are many of them.

     No, I’m not suggesting that mass murderers are consequences of the failure of etiquette. But the enervation of self-control, coupled to the premise that if it’s behind closed doors, it’s alright, is what makes their infamies possible.

     The social system cannot self-correct. It requires a reinstitution of norms, and law enforcement is not equal to that task. Their origin was in faith.

* * *

     When John Adams wrote:

     Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious People. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.

     … he was expressing the premise required for a society to have both a high degree of liberty and a tolerable amount of order. For liberty to be not only possible but sustainable, the rules of order must be internal to us. They must be as self-enforcing as the law of gravity. Today, owing to the increasing disaffiliation from our previously common Christian faith and the norms it propounded, that self-enforcement has largely failed.

     See also Lynne Truss’s valuable little book Talk To The Hand.