"Whenever I go into a restaurant, I order both a chicken and an egg to see which comes first"

Sunday, February 25, 2024

The Sad Tale Of Edgar Sommers, The Last Progressive In America

Edgar Sommers was a thoughtful, dutiful, and thoroughly engaged man - a good man, one dedicated to principles and purpose, and one never tempted by irrelevance. That was for lesser men, and ever since he had been chosen for service, he had never once demurred.  The fate of the world was simply far too important for desultory interest. 

He was a member of Americans For Concerned Environmental Action, The Southern Conference for Racial Equality, the League of Professional Women, and many others.  He had walked with giants, tended the sick, fought the right battles at the right time, but now, horribile dictu, the time for social justice was coming to an end.  

As unconscionable a thought as that might have been a decade ago when progressivism was in full flower, and when its advocates and supporters were everywhere in the land in a Je seme a tout vent existential miracle, something had happened.  The oomph had gone out of the movement, the fire out of its loins, the passion, the desire, the absolute rabid righteousness gone with the wind. 

It had to do with Donald Trump, his first and second victories, and the seditious spread of viral conservatism, but the movement had continued increasing, multiplying, and splitting as fast as a chick embryo until it had become the ethos of the nation, a unifying principle, a political oneness.  How could this be, wondered Edgar as he saw the bastions, fortresses, and embankments of progressivism eroded by successive waves of radicalism? 

One by one the shibboleths of liberalism were falling.  Confederate statues were re-erected, forts, streets, and schools renamed for Southern heroes; the Black Man's notice of racial and cultural supremacy removed, the transgender movement stunted, redirected, and consigned away. Biblical injunction replaced Lacanian exegesis.  Churches were built on a monumental scale, Chartres and Notre-Dame replicas, stone books of the new religious age. Raw enterprise, industrial laissez-faire, and the law of the marketplace displaced communitarianism, compassionate consideration, and the redistribution of economic wealth. 


Edgar remained in Washington, almost alone, awash in a sea of conservatism, gasping for air in an atmosphere of me-first, whites-only, male idolatry.  He was still among his claques and shills, squads, caucuses, and crews but he felt the tide ebbing.  Soon he and his brothers and sisters would be washed far out to sea.  

What had happened? How had the heady vision of Utopia faded so quickly, tarnished by insult and innuendo - 'falsity, claptrap, Dodoism'.  It was a time of insular patriotism, xenophobia, and Mighty Joe Young primitivism.  No one seemed to want even the crumbs of what Edgar and his fellow reformers had worked for for decades.  It was every white man for himself, lord of the manor, patriarch, pasha, and grandee. 


It wasn't so much that conservatism had made a comeback after so many years in the anterooms of power as second fiddles, acolytes, intellectual drifters, and lost boys. Conservatism had become the ethos of the land.  Where Edgar and his like had been championed in years past, progressives were now paraded down Pennsylvania Avenue like slaves to the new Emperor.  He was a voice crying in the ever-widening wilderness. 

Glitz and glamour were in.  Comfortable, broken-in shoes were replaced by Italian leather; and rumple gave way to silk suits, cheap chic, and the Las Vegas, sequined look. 

Americans scrambled for it all like Jews at a wedding buffet, so much to eat and so little time.  It was a cultural grande bouffe of major proportions.  There was no polite bites of the salmon mousse and Quiche Lorraine, but a wholescale gourmandize of the pastrami, lox, and bagels. 

Edgar was blindsided.  He should have seen it coming with the successive conservative victories following on the Trump presidencies.  President after president came from cracker- and MAGA-land, the bayous, backwoods, and cypress swamps and sagebrush of America.  Conservatism became no less the secular religion that progressivism had.  Right and wrong were filtered through a political prism.  A new litany of God and country was recited as often as race, gender, and ethnicity had been in Edgar's day.  The turn of the screw, what goes around comes around, the Dawn of a New Age. 

Progressive numbers dwindled, but Edgar's staying power was still intact although fraying at the edges. His commitment had never been deeper or more intense; but whereas in the past he would have been attacked and censured for his political fantasies and obtuse intentions, now he was laughed at.  He had become a clown, a freak, a bearded lady, a dwarf.  

Yet he felt himself still Jesus on the Potomac, the savior, the prophet, the Chosen One.  Cassandras have always been ignored, so be it.  Cultural heroes must ride insolently above the herd, Nietzschean Supermen, God's anointed; and so it was that this, the last progressive in America, kept his footing till the last. 


Of course the end did not come quickly, but slowly and painfully.  Give me 'a soldier's death' says Marcus Aurelius to his assassins.  It was hard for Edgar to watch the conservative juggernaut, a new Sherman's March to the Sea, a Genghis Khan-like sweep from east to west until the entire country was under its yoke. 

Of course Edgar was disingenuous at best, naive and credulous at worst.  He of all people should have seen the revolution coming.  Liberal progressivism, a nouveau political philosophy based on European deconstructionist idealism, Socialist cant and Communist inspiration could never take hold in the Wild West, Robber Baron, Gunfight at OK Corral individualism of the United States.  Hippies, free love, communes, and the let-it-be ethos of the Sixties were not the avant-garde of the new America, but a sorry aberration. 

So Edgar rattled on until he was too old to stand, bullhorn in hand, fingers on the Internet, on the pulpit, the podium and at whistle stops; but he was increasingly a cartoon figure, a distorted side show escapee.  Progressivism had had its day, and it was pitiful to see this poor old codger hanging on with his nails. 

There were Trumps galore after the real Donald Trump.  His show was just the beginning.  America had finally had enough of the Left's cant and faux logique and looked forward to generations of burlesque, vaudeville, and big top governance. 


As far as Edgar was concerned, there were plenty of old people's homes around where he could spend his final years with like minded troopers - a kind of veterans lodging - and go out with fond memories of the way it was.  Only occasionally when news of the new conservative president filtered into the game room did Edgar wonder if it all was worth it.  That is, if decades of tireless effort, good will, and serious commitment to a righteous cause could be swept away in one fell swoop, how important could it have been?

Not at all said the young conservatives who were were no sitting in his chair.  Not whatsoever at all. 

The End Of The War Between The Sexes - Thanks To Transgenderism, Men And Women Are History

Perhaps the most famous literary work about the war between the sexes is Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, an excoriating play by Edward Albee in which George and Martha 'flay each other to the bone' and destroy every last bit of the ego and identity which has made their married life sheer hell. 

The play in unremitting in its harshness, its slashing wounds, and its mercilessness in its attack on the assumptions of marriage and their wicked falsity. 

At the end of the play, George and Martha, spent and empty, say that they now can start again, but the theatregoer wonders if after such a life of bitter vindictiveness, reconciliation and love are really possible. 

Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew is another acerbic look into sexual relationships.  Kate is a shrewish, bitter woman who hates the idea of men and the presumption of female complaisance.  She is crude, angry, and dismissive of them all except Petruchio who sees that her misandry is simply an emotional defense, a cover for the treatment she received as a child from her father.  

Petruchio sees in her the very spirit, lively intelligence, and independence he has always sought in a woman, and she sees him as the one man who knows and appreciates her.   

The battle between the two equally matched opponents is engaged, and after tearing at each others vanities, they come together. 

Shakespeare's Comedies are all about women who run rings around men.  Each of them, Rosalind, Viola, and Portia are far superior to the troupe of courtiers who come to the gates; but each woman, given the nature of the times, must marry for status and money.  All's well that ends well is the comedic meme for marriages that are sure to fail once the happy wedding celebration is over. 

The literary list of sexual dramas is endless.  Every deception, resentment, hope, disillusionment; every drab, tired bedtime, every pound of flesh has been chronicled, dramatized, and replayed. Men and women simply do not get along, these authors, poets, and playwrights say; accommodation is the rule, and only the weak submit to it. 

This is all background for the real story - the coming revolution in sexual affairs that will remove the millennia-old canker between men and women.  When society is pangender - that is when most former men and women have given up assigned-at-birth sexual identities and become androgynous, sexually fluid, and of indistinct sex, the world will be a less contentious, more congenial place. 

This revolution has nothing to do with gay pride.  Two men in a couple can be just as bitchy, demanding, and controlling as a man and a woman.  Gay cat fights may be only scratching, biting affairs but they are just as deadly serious.  Hell hath no fury like a woman - or gay man - scorned; so looking to gay marriage as an anodyne, is simply whistlin' Dixie. 

When sexuality is floating, fungible, and not harnessed and bound, there is far more give and less take.  Sexual demand - the central issue in straight marriage - is gone. Men want sex constantly and irrevocably while women are diffident. For them the rooster's contribution is enough. 

Laura in Strindberg's The Father who dismisses her bullying, weak husband, good only for reproduction and nothing else, is the model. Of course even with such desultory sexual interest, women demand some sexual attention; and knowing that they have become little more than a bag of laundry to their husbands, they have ways of shaming them to their beds and out of other women's. 


Easier said than done, for the dalliances and errancies of men are the rule.  Men for whom God's greatest irony is condemning them to sexual desire and frustration for their four-score-and-twenty years, can't help tomcatting, and when eventually and ultimately caught, are in the dog house. 

None of this will happen when society is pangender.  Once untethered from the two old, tired, useless sexual categories; when there are no such things as men and women but everything in between, a million combinations and permutation of sexual identity, all available, and easy to engage, marriage will be less of a pain.

While some men who have transformed into women will hold on to that transgender identity with purpose - high heels, pearl earrings, and perfume - they will soon realize that once natural sexual identity has been replaced, one size does not fit all, and many sexual shoes are in the shop.  

In other words, why not be fluid and pick and choose on the gender spectrum as the mood dictates?  The new sexual revolution is all about fungibility - if you can identify as a woman, then you can identify as any one of a hundred gender options on the spectrum.  If sexual identity is a matter of will, not biology then anything is possible.  To the point, if you are never sure who will turn up in your bed, you have no reason for gall. Love the one you're with takes on a whole different meaning. 

How many husbands are tired of the hair-in-the-sink, toilet seat, you're-not-listening-to-me routines? And how many of them sneak their way to Annette from Accounting, 'stay late at the office' or extend their business trips with a stopover in Copenhagen?

All of this tiresome stereotypical sexual behavior will be out the window when the new, true sexual revolution becomes universal.  The commercial implications are of course staggering. Unisex shops will be things of the past.  For each men's or women's shop there will be fifty come-as-you-are, go-as-you-please fashion smorgasbords, high-end gender novelty shops catering to the new fluidity

All the now unnecessary signage will go - Men's, Ladies', Laddies, Lassies, 'M', 'F' nothing will be gender specific, and gone will the questions and political divisiveness.  One nation, indivisible will take on a whole new meaning. 

What about reproduction? Oh, that...Well, in this brave new world fertility, an inconvenient necessity will be handled the new way - in vitro with genetically engineered embryos.  Fluid couples will opt for starter babies of more predictable genders, but when older, they can and will be as sexless and gender-optioned as their 'parents'.  Parenthood, too, will be completely redefined and will be more like a sexual kibbutz.  Again, the choices will be delightful if at first somewhat bewildering. 

So, for all those gender stick-in-the-muds reading this, get over it.  The sexual genie is finally out of the bottle, and the new sexual age has dawned. Try it, you'll like it. 

Saturday, February 24, 2024

January 6th - Diary Of A Deep State MAGA Crazy

Henry Lofton lived in a cabin in the north woods of the Idaho panhandle.  He and his three friends - Billy Bob Frank, Kissy Marden, and Upton Blair - had lived there since Sleepy Joe Biden had stolen the election from their man in 2020, and since then had plotted and planned and conspired to do whatever they could to see that the faux president would never stay in the Oval Office. 

Henry was a Westerner, born and raised in Livingston, Montana, an old railroad town turned quiche and post office box income. His father had worked as a telephone lineman and part time on the cattle cars when the Union Pacific needed extra help.  His mother, originally from Wyoming had come to Montana with Henry's father whom she had met at a Cody rodeo.  

Henry had worked since the age of eight when he swept out the barber shop on Saturday mornings when the cowboys came in to get a trim. Life was hard, especially in winter when it was hard to heat their railroad flat by the tracks; but he never resented it, and in fact felt it made him the tough hombre that he was now.

Billy Bob was a Georgia cracker and proud of it, native of the backwoods hill country, Southern as shit, Confederate to his boot tops, mad as a bit cougar at the Washington fools who had been after him and his family since the War. His father was a moonshiner who had upped the ante and got into crystal meth, got busted in Macon, spent eight years at the federal pen at Baldwin, and got right back into business, this time armed and ready. 


Kissy was a groom on a Central Florida horse ranch owned by his uncle.  The uncle had done two tours in Nam, came back completely fucked up, took his army pension and disability and put a thousand down for three horses and five acres in Ocala.  Kissy had been on his own since his own father had been killed in Khe Sanh and his mother ended up in West Texas with a trucker. Ever since the government repossessed the ranch and evicted his uncle, the stink of horses, old leather, and rat poison were the only things he remembered - that and a visceral hatred for Washington. 

Upton Blair was the son of itinerant street preachers who had moved from North Carolina to Philadelphia with the notion of converting the North Philly slums into havens of God; but after beatings, robberies, and years of insult, they returned home to piece work, tarpaper shacks, and chicken feed. 

The four of them just happened on each other at Pete's Bar in Coeur d'Alene, broke, drinking cheap beer and looking for the shit, but it was an alliance made in heaven.  Four rejects with nothing to lose and an abiding hatred for the government that had wronged them all independently decided to migrate north. 

Trump was their man, their hero, their Achilles, their surrogate who would not only drain the swamp but build a bastion of righteousness against the socialist bottom-dwellers who had spawned and bred there; and here he was, robbed of a second term and determined to get his job back and save America from the buggering fools trying to take it over, and needed all the support he could get to make America Great Again.


Henry had heard of some kind of march on Washington, and without a second thought decided to go. They would ride the rails, cadge their way East on big rigs with American flags, and come hell or high water make it to the so-called Capital. Money was no object because they had none, but the Deep State was a community, and would take care of its own. 

It was a thing of passion, this ride East, and the first time they had felt anything like eagerness, let alone hope; but there it was, picking up steam and comrades every hundred miles, men as angry as they were scuttling about, picked on, forgotten, and resented their whole lives.  They were the true bottom of America.  Forget the inner city.  That was a place of order, and purpose.  Women, dope, bling, and power; and the communists in Washington gave tax dollars to them? while Henry and his buddies had gotten nothing but swill and leavings, shit from straw bosses, and beatings from railroad bulls.  If there was a disenfranchised, beset upon, relegated group of Americans, it was them.

Henry, his crewe, and the pick ups from Boise eastward had no idea about the workings of government, the tripartite division of powers, the Constitution, or the machinery of government.  They knew nothing about interest rates, debt ceilings, or the stock market.  They had no clue about enterprise, start-ups, or the working of the economy.  They were headed to Washington with nothing but a rabid, inchoate anger in their heads.  A colony of losers, a nation of incoherent, unfortunate semi-beings.

Like the doped-up child soldiers of Sierra Leone, they dressed in fright wigs, crinoline, and stockings and added Viking helmets, Irish shillelaghs, and Vatican robes.  They had raided dumpsters and trash heaps and found wild treasures, and by the time they had reached Pennsylvania Avenue they were decked out in discards from tattoo parlors, brothels, dance halls, and pawn shops. 

The rest is history.  This wild bunch of crazies marched on the Capitol in their wigs, Viking horns, clown suits, and Frankenstein masks and they called it insurrection.  Insurrection? Revolution? Where had 'they' been hiding? Where were they when Jonas Savimbi took on the Angolan military, or when the Right Wing death squads in El Salvador disemboweled the entrenched bureaucracy, or when the Sandinistas ran amok, or when one African tribe after another slaughtered each other? 'They' - the whole lot of government shills and do-good wannabees who had never been outside the Capitol or their safe districts - ran at the first sign of a crowd.  

Henry, Billy Bob, Kissy, and Upton were in the middle ranks of the clown parade on the Capitol on January 6th. They got pushed to the curb by Alabama hillbillies with dildo clubs, lost in the shuffle of ten-gallon hatted bullies from Abilene, and kicked aside by white hoodlums from Gaithersburg. They had done their bit, the Capitol was a long way off, and there was still no money to be had. 

By the time the affair was over, and the campus police had jackbooted their way into the crowd and locked up the front runners, Henry and his crewe were on their way back to Idaho; but their interest in returning there was nil.  They had shot their wad and wanted to fish someplace nice and quiet, maybe have a girl and some home cooking. Someplace flat.  

And so it was that they stopped in Bolivar, Ohio, made a go of farm life and as far as anyone knew, had given up politics altogether.