If you don’t turn your life into a story, you just become a part of someone else’s story.

– From The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents

Yesterday seemed to be one of those day’s that passed with a whimper leaving not even a whisper of the wind behind. Last night was different, however. I was awakened at about 4 a.m. in the morning and sent fleeing out of bed and into the living room by a horrible nightmare. I dreamt I was sitting in an old fashioned ice cream and soda fountain store in the Bronx drinking a chocolate egg cream. Suddenly the door flew open and none other that Donald Trump walked in. He strode to the counter and in a soft voice ordered a vanilla Ice cream soda. He then thanked the server paid for the drink and with the ice cream soda in hand walked to the table where I was sitting, sat down and said, “Nice Day, isn’t it?” He then quietly finished his drink in silence, got up wished me a good day and walked out. The only thing that kept me from screaming as I jumped out of bed and ran into the living room was fear I would wake up Naida and the dog.

The morning broke sunny and warm. The dog and I went for a pleasant walk after which Naida and I went to breakfast. We sat with the silent couple, Jim and Pat. Naida and I talked. They listened. After, we returned to our apartment and for several hours stared at our computers in silence. At one point Naida went a bit bat shit at the intransigence of her computer. I unravelled the computer problem, but we still remain incapable of getting our new printer to work.

Writing this on the following day (Monday) I do not recall what happened the rest of the day but in the evening we watched a few episodes of After Life on Netflix and a movie that I no longer recall. This indicates that at my age if I do not write it down here It does not exist. A life is what you remember.

     “There’s always a story. It’s all stories, really. The sun coming up every day is a story. Everything’s got a story in it. Change the story, change the world.”

                    Terry Pratchett 

         

                         

After another restless night, I got up earlier than usual and took the dog for a walk around the lake. Heavy rain was expected later in the day. At breakfast, we sat at a table with Marsha (Harvey’s wife) and the Irish priest. Since it was St. Patrick’s Day, everyone but me was wearing green, including the waitstaff. Most of the conversation revolved around our experiences in Ireland. The priest had been born there, I had traveled there many times and loved it almost as much as I love my beloved Sicily. Marsha and her late husband, Harvey (the brain surgeon), were of Irish heritage and had visited Ireland often.

After breakfast, we returned to the apartment. Hayden called to cancel our lunch because Uncle Mask had injured his eye, and Hayden had to take him to the doctor. Naida and I then attended this morning’s exercise session. It was one of the yoga days with the giggling instructor—an exhausting session, as usual.

While watching the news, I was also working on my post about the biologist Marianne North for my Forgotten Women of History series. At one point, Naida leaned over and remarked, “I know a lot of people named West but only a few Norths.” This led to a wasted hour of researching the history of Naida’s grandmother Symon’s name.

A little later, Naida heard music from downstairs—the Charon’s Rest Saint Patrick’s Day party had begun. We went down. The large cardroom was packed. Drinks were Irish-themed, including something called Green Beer. I had never heard of Green Beer before, so I ordered one along with some snacks from the hors d’oeuvres table. Settling into a comfortable chair in the lobby, I listened to the two-person band: a hot woman drummer and a sizzling jazz pianist who played and sang oldies and popular Irish tunes. Several of the younger old ladies, including Naida, danced around.

After the party, we headed into the dining room for dinner. We sat with Jan and Floyd. Floyd entertained us with stories of his time in Germany in the 1950s when he was stationed there with the U.S. Army. Jan had joined him for a couple of years. I retold my stories from my time in Sicily in the late 1960s. When you reach your 80s, there are a few truly important things left in life—aside from being alive and sentient. Chief among them are having a comfortable place to eat and sleep and plenty of stories to tell.

After dinner, we returned to our apartment. I walked the dog, and then we all watched Antiques Roadshow. Of all the television shows we spend our declining years watching, this one remains a favorite. I could never quite figure out why, so I decided to ask my AI friend to explain it. AI responded:

       “Why do I enjoy Antiques Roadshow so much? Well, for one, it’s a masterclass in nostalgia. Every object carries a story, and seeing people’s reactions to discovering their great-aunt’s hideous lamp is actually worth $50,000 never gets old. Then there’s the sheer randomness—one moment it’s a Civil War sword, the next, a Pez dispenser worth a small fortune. And let’s not forget the subtle thrill of appraiser drama: “Well, Bob, if you hadn’t polished it, this would be worth five times as much.” Ah, the heartbreak. It’s like a genteel reality show where everyone wears tweed and no one throws punches. What’s not to love?’”

Everyone’s a comedian.

I woke up early this morning, unsure whether I felt good or not. It was too early for such analysis. I had set the alarm for 7 a.m.—a whole one or two hours before my usual signs of life—so I’d have plenty of time to catch the bus for my dermatologist appointment.

I quickly dressed and took the dog out for our morning walk. The fog was surprisingly thick, so much so that the dog, at the end of his leash, seemed on the verge of vanishing into the mist. Afterward, Naida and I had breakfast with Mary (the nurse) and Jerry (the theologian). We talked about the heavy mist and reminisced about the Tule Fogs of the past. Once breakfast was done, Naida returned to our apartment, and I headed off to my appointment.

As expected, the appointment was as productive as a screen door on a submarine. The medical assistant asked if anything had changed with my dermatological issues. I responded with a firm “no.” She nodded approvingly and said, “That’s good. So, we’ll see you for a checkup in six months then.” We exchanged pleasantries, and I returned to Charon’s Rest. Looking out the van window on the drive back, I amused myself by imagining old Charon himself emerging from the fog to ferry me away.

Back at the apartment, Naida rushed off to her exercise session. I declined to accompany her, citing exhaustion from my arduous medical adventure. One can always justify a lingering sense of malaise by blaming either fatigue or ennui. Instead, I puttered around, reading here and there, until Naida returned. She settled at her computer to work on her memoir, while I devoted myself to the fine art of contemplating an afternoon nap.

Two hours later, Naida and David returned from their adventure. In that entire time, I had moved only once—from the couch to the refrigerator for some chocolate. Naida was practically glowing with excitement. Not only had she found copies of her long-lost PhD thesis, Leadership and Gender: A Comparative Analysis of Male and Female Leadership in Business, Politics, and Government, but she had also unearthed her missing eyeglasses and hearing aid.

She was delighted with that stroke of luck. Before leaving for dinner I opened Naida’s thesis at random and read the following few lines from Chapter 14. It begins:

One of the most interesting facets of the human mind is its ability to combine that which was defined as undefinable. The theory of marginality, for example, recognizes this ability. That theory assumes that only a few people can weave together a whole tapestry from the threads of conflicting values and irreconcilable beliefs. It may be true that only a few characteristically and regularly perform this mental trick, but, given time, the realities of power, and the economics of needs, whole groups can and do combine the uncombinable. 

  We then set off for dinner.

At dinner, we sat with Corinne (Coco’s mom) and the New Zealand lady whose name I keep forgetting. I ordered beef tri-tip with Bordelaise sauce. However, the sauce they brought—and which I enthusiastically slathered onto my food—was not Bordelaise. It was something so fiery that it burned my mouth and brought tears to my eyes. A truly memorable dining experience. Despite my suffering, we had a lively conversation about dogs, Naida’s great day, and, of course, my scorched taste buds.

After dinner, Naida entertained the lobby by playing the piano while I took the dog for his evening walk. The sun was still shining, making our stroll more pleasant than usual. Back in the apartment, Naida continued working on her memoir, and I finished reading A Curious Beginning, the first novel in a mystery series by Deanna Raybourn. The story, set in Victorian England, features the daring adventuress Veronica Speedwell. It showed promise, and I might even continue with the series.

And so ended another day at Charon’s Rest—foggy beginnings, pointless appointments, misplaced (and found) treasures, and culinary surprises. A day well spent.

I woke up early this morning, and aside from a minor skirmish with my hemorrhoids, I felt great. Took the dog out for a brisk and pleasant walk. At breakfast, we sat with the Irish priest (named Patrick, of course) and Marilyn Mann. Pleasant conversation all around. At some point, for reasons unknown, we started talking about walking sticks. Turns out Patrick, like me, was a collector. A comment was made about the faux shillelagh I clomp around with, which led to a story:

Back in college, for some inexplicable reason, I had a reputation as a seasoned ladies’ man. This was wildly untrue. In reality, I was shy, rarely had dates, and was, in every sense of the word, a virgin. Nevertheless, at mixers, I would stand with my fellow wallflowers, pretending that I wasn’t painfully self-conscious. Most of the young women at these events were equally petrified, so we had that in common.

At some point, an especially beautiful girl would arrive, and one of my less fortunate compatriots would nudge me and say, “Alright, Joe, show us the old magic.” Too frightened to admit that I had no magic to speak of, I would slowly walk across the room and say something incredibly suave like, “Would you like to dance?” Or, if I was particularly terrified, just a panicked “Dance?” with my voice cracking on the question mark.

Once we were on the floor, my conversational skills would peak at “Nice dance?” or some other equally riveting observation. After the song ended, knowing full well that the wallflower society was watching my every move, I would say something grand like, “Warm in here. Want to get some fresh air?” And off we’d go, to the great astonishment of my comrades. Outside, I’d dazzle her with my small talk: “Nice night, huh?” We’d stand in mutual silence until the unbearable awkwardness drove us back inside, where she’d rejoin her giggling friends, and I’d return to my wide-eyed wallflower brethren. They’d demand to know what happened, and I’d deliver my stock response: “Real men never tell.”

The story that came up at breakfast, however, was about the time the wallflower crew asked me for advice on “how to make it with girls.” One of them, a short, skinny guy with an impressively large nose and perpetually unruly black hair, was particularly desperate. Before the next mixer, he came to me for help.

“Canes,” I declared. “Women love men with canes. They think it’s sophisticated. Irresistible.”

So that night, he arrived at the dance proudly wielding a walking stick. I assured him he looked fantastic. With newfound confidence, he strode across the dance floor and asked the girl he’d been eyeing to dance. She said yes. They eventually got married, had three kids, and lived more or less happily ever after.

As I wrapped up my tale, an elderly gentleman named Floyd wandered over and said, “I could hear you from across the dining room. Can I borrow your cane?” I was mortified.

After breakfast, Naida and I attended the morning exercise session. It was just the two of us and Mr. Mack, plus the instructor. Exhausting. Afterward, Naida took the dog for his midday walk while I ventured to the nearby shopping center, now that Social Security had seen fit to replenish my bank account. By the time I got back, it was 3 p.m. Another day slipping away.

Dinner was with Jim and Pat, who regaled us with tales of their various cruise vacations. I was especially interested in their trips to Alaska and Turkey—Alaska because I’ve never been, Turkey because I have, and I loved it.

After dinner, Naida played the piano in the lobby for a while, and I sat nearby, enjoying the music. Then we returned to the apartment, where Naida promptly fell asleep, while I occupied myself with catching up on emails and messages.

Another day, another entry in the grand adventure.

     “The idea is to die young as late as possible.” 

                         Ashley Montague

I woke up early this morning to a bit of hanky-panky. Actually, scratch that—it was a lot of hanky-panky. At our age, there’s usually more hanky than panky, but not today. This morning, the panky showed up in force, and I was so exhausted afterward I promptly fell back asleep until 11 a.m.

Naida, clearly made of sterner stuff than I am, had already gone off to do… whatever it is she does. I was left groggy and stuck with the dog. I slumped onto the sofa and sat there for about an hour, trying to remember what I had planned to do today—and why I wouldn’t be doing any of it.

Eventually, I remembered to call my primary care doctor’s office about that elusive kidney specialist referral. The receptionist informed me that the original nephrologist flat-out refused to accept my insurance. I was then presented with two alternatives—both located far enough away to require a teleportation device or divine intervention from River’s Edge transportation, neither of which is available until autumn.

I asked, “What happens if I’m dying of kidney failure in the meantime?” She replied, quite reasonably, that she just schedules appointments and I’d have to ask an actual doctor for a more existential answer. Fair enough. I picked one of the far-flung options, and she promised to send me the doctor’s phone number so I could set up the appointment myself.

No sooner had I hung up than Hayden called. We were supposed to have lunch today. He sheepishly admitted he overslept because his girlfriend stayed over and, well… late-night activities happened. Lunch was rescheduled for tomorrow. I told him I understood completely, because I definitely remember what it’s like to be young and full of hormones… I think.

Then Naida returned from wherever she’d been and announced we were out of dog food. Naturally. So off I went to Raley’s—but not before stopping in the dining room for a quick lunch. I had a hot dog. Gourmet living at its finest.

By the time I got back with the dog food, it was already time for the Charon’s Rest Independent Living Town Hall meeting. As a proud, weary member of the Resident Council Board, I dragged myself there, arriving fashionably late—as is traditional with me.

The Executive Director was mid-announcement when I entered, and I missed most of what she said. Something about new carpets stirring “divergent opinions”—a diplomatic way of saying half the residents love them and the other half are ready to riot. She then moved on to the Council’s ever-growing list of concerns. Most are still “under investigation,” aka buried in bureaucracy or blamed on someone else. But hey, some progress! We gained a dinner server, lost a lunch one, and—miracle of miracles—the sticky garbage chute door has finally been fixed.

After the meeting, I headed back to the apartment and killed time until dinner by doing absolutely nothing useful.

At dinner, we sat with Coco’s Mom and the delightful lady from New Zealand. We discussed the usual: food gripes, Council drama, and whatever else passed for news around here. We laughed a lot. After they left, the Nurse and Mr. Mack joined us. Mr. Mack lamented that I’d missed the balloon-throwing exercise session. We both agreed it’s the best of Charon’s Rest’s fitness offerings—nothing says cardio like lobbing inflatable plastic at other seniors.

The Nurse then confessed she’d lost her 2024 tax return and couldn’t remember her AGI (Adjusted Gross Income) to file this year’s. After some jokes about the Trump-era staffing apocalypse at the IRS, we suggested she dig up her 2023 return, make a reasonable guess at her 2024 AGI based on that, and hope the IRS appreciates the effort. If not, she could always ask them for the number and amend the return later. Bureaucracy is a dance—we just try not to trip over it.

After dinner, I took the dog for a long walk. The sun was still out, the sky was clear, and the temperature hovered in the mid-60s. Pretty close to perfect.

Then I went to bed early. And this time, no hanky or panky.

Woke up this morning feeling like a limp dishrag that had lost its will to soak. Sluggish, exhausted, and thoroughly uninspired. After breakfast (which I don’t even remember eating—probably toast?), I shuffled back to bed like a defeated Roman emperor and pretty much stayed there all day. Slept on and off, in that groggy, semi-conscious state where time loses all meaning.

Oh, and there was blood in my phlegm. Yes, phlegm—I checked, that’s how it’s spelled, even though it looks like a cat sneezed on the keyboard. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do: I Googled it. The Internet, in its infinite wisdom, told me not to panic yet. Apparently, a little blood isn’t a big deal… until it is. Comforting.

Mostly, I just felt like a useless lump of vaguely human-shaped clay. Had to cancel lunch with Hayden. Again. Poor guy must think I’ve joined a cult or moved to a cave. And, of course, with all this going on, my brain—ever the overachiever—starts whispering: “What if you’re dying?” Which would be sad, sure, but not exactly shocking.

I felt warm, but the thermometer insisted I was being dramatic. I did notice this odd pressure around my midsection, like my own belly fat is staging a coup against my internal organs. A soft, squishy rebellion. It’s now 2:30 p.m., and nothing of consequence has happened, other than me morphing into a particularly unmotivated houseplant.

The next hour or so was spent in bed, intermittently asking AI to print things based on whatever random thought floated through my congested brain. Around 4 p.m., I summoned the willpower of a thousand monks and crept downstairs for dinner. Naida and I sat alone—we decided to spare others just in case I’m brewing up a new plague. Also, I wasn’t in the mood to pretend to be charming.

After dinner? Back to bed. Not well enough to get up, not sick enough to groan theatrically. So I lay there, staring at the ceiling like a Victorian ghost. Naida worked on her memoir, the dog snored like a freight train, and I dozed on and off, playing dead without the commitment.

Oddly enough, I felt a bit better by bedtime. So who knows? Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up with the energy of a caffeinated squirrel. We shall see.

Woke up this morning feeling fit and feisty. Why I feel like I’m on death’s doorstep one day and dancing on sunshine the next is my existential mystery of the week. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s karma. Maybe my body’s just messing with me.

Anyway, I took Booboo out for his morning constitutional. I was spry enough to walk him all the way around the lake and into the dog park. He tore off to sniff every blade of grass like he was decoding the canine version of The New York Times. I flopped down on a bench and started scrolling through the usual morning madness on my phone.

Then—bam!—Slate arrived. A very handsome, disgustingly well-behaved dog, dragging his owner behind him. Booboo was delighted. Not a single bark. Just some tail-wagging bromance.

We eventually made it home, and after settling Booboo in his little hut on the balcony, Naida and I headed out for breakfast.

We sat with Jim and Pat—“The Quiet Couple.” Conversation started with Jim’s roots in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and morphed into Naida telling tales about her friend Persia Woolley, the author of The Guinevere Trilogy and former mistress of Norman Mailer. That segued—don’t ask how—into a debate about whether King Arthur was a real guy or a well-branded myth.

Jim suggested Arthur might’ve been a myth. (Points for creativity.) I countered with a bit about the Battle of Mount Badon, which may have brought forty years of peace after the Romans exited Britain stage left. The Arthurian legends we know mostly came from 12th- and 13th-century court poets working under Eleanor of Aquitaine and Marie of Champagne, who gave us the bizarre idea that love is nobler in denial than in fulfillment. (End result: women died of longing, men went to war. Classic romance.)

From there, we somehow ended up back in Civil War-era Chattanooga. Jim mentioned his ancestors fought on both sides—which isn’t unheard of—but one actually switched teams mid-war and became a scout for Union General Rosecrans.

“Ah,” I said. “So your family was responsible for Rosecrans losing the battle.” It was the erroneous information provided by the scouts that are considered a major reason for Rosecrans humiliation.(History zingers for the win.)

Naida and Jim expressed surprise at my encyclopedic knowledge of historical minutiae. They asked why I never became a history professor.

“Historiography,” I said, like I was ordering a fancy coffee. When I learned historians spend years sifting through dusty documents for a footnote’s worth of knowledge, I decided that wasn’t my life. I’ve always been better at figuring out what I don’t want to do.

Naida said I would’ve been a great lecturer. Maybe. But the idea of standing in front of a class, droning on about medieval trade routes to half-asleep undergrads? Hard pass. I prefer reading, thinking, and watching the world go by from a comfortable distance.

Jim brought up my detour into law school. I confessed something I rarely do: I assumed law school would be like college—show up sometimes, pass anyway. Wrong. I didn’t understand the law at all. Meanwhile, people I knew as C-students were suddenly having lightbulb moments and becoming law professors.

Jim looked skeptical. “Then how did you manage to succeed?”

“Whether I succeeded is debatable,” I said. “But I partnered with the ones who got it—the quiet geniuses terrified of public speaking. I wasn’t less afraid than they were. I just had a bigger fear of quitting. So I stood up and spoke anyway. I figured it was better to risk public humiliation than cowardice. Or as I like to put it: better brown stains in my shorts than on my record.”

After breakfast, we went back to the apartment. Naida dove into her memoir, and I camped out on the sofa, collecting factoids like a butterfly hunter chasing trivia instead of moths.

After a nap, we headed to dinner and sat with the New Zealand lady. (Still don’t know her name. One day…) I couldn’t follow the conversation. My mind kept wandering—to where, I have no clue. Some thought bubble floated off and never came back.

Naida played piano in the lobby after dinner. She was in rare form. The music had warmth and feeling again—more than it’s had in a while. Her fingers weren’t just hitting keys; they were telling stories.

On the way back upstairs, I picked up the latest issue of River’s Edge Current, our inmate newsletter. At the end was this lovely line:

    “Our time on Earth is limited. Don’t try to ‘age with grace.’ Age with mischief, audacity, and a good story to tell.”

Well, I’ve got the stories. Whether they’re good is another matter. As for mischief—I lie often and well. Audacity? Not so much. I prefer to observe chaos from a safe, judgmental distance.

Later, I took Booboo on one last stroll around the lake. It was the kind of early spring evening that makes you believe in things again. Cool breeze, warm sweater, soft dusk.

Back home, Naida and I spent the rest of the evening watching KVIE’s Saturday night lineup—British comedies, mysteries, and the usual costume dramas where everyone communicates with dramatic pauses and subtle sighs. Between episodes, I finished this journal entry and turned to Chat AI for editing.

That’s when it popped up with this message:

    “Let me know if you’d like to add more entries or if Naida wants a pass at her memoir too.”

I showed it to Naida. She was apoplectic.

“How does it know about me?” she demanded.

I reminded her that I’d mentioned her and her mentor in earlier entries. That calmed her down—mostly.

But it got me thinking: why would a machine take the initiative like that? And if it can take initiative, when does it decide to joke instead of give me a straight answer? What if I’m counting on a fact, and it throws me a zinger instead?

Eventually, I shelved that philosophical rabbit hole for another day.

All in all, though, it was a rare, great day.

And I’ll take it.

I woke up after experiencing some of the most pleasant dreams I have had in quite a while. I no longer recall what they were about of course, but I felt their positive influence well into the afternoon. I took the dog for his morning walk. If the first day of spring in the Great Valley occurred a few days ago, today felt like the first day of summer. It was warm enough to forgo any additional outer covering than a light vest. If it continues this warm I will soon have to break out my Hawaiian shirts.

At breakfast we sat with Marsha, Harvey’s wife, and their daughter Jennifer. Jennifer like Naida is a singer and so we spent some time talking about singing and vocal training. Both Naida and I remarked how much Marsha’s daughter Jennifer resembled Naida’s daughter also named Jennifer in looks, and facial expressions. Marsha and Naida mentioned the had chosen their daughter’s names at the time because they thought it was unusual only to discover later it had become one of the most popular names for female babies born around the time. Naida thought it was because of the popularity of Jennifer Jones in the movie “Love is a Many Splintered Thing which had premiered a few years before. I then spoke up and said to add to the coincidence, my first daughter, who was born about the same time as the other two was also named Jennifer, Unfortunately, my Jennifer had died in a “crib death’” when she was about 9 months old.

As we broke up after breakfast, I told Marsha how sad I was to see her leaving River’s Edge and how much she and her late husband Harvey had meant to me during the short time we had been together.

Later Hayden arriver. I had not seen him for at least three weeks and I had missed him dearly. We ate lunch in the dining room and discussed his activities at College, his relationship with his girl friend, the new business he was starting up and the job’s her was considering. We also talked about his plans to visit Thailand this Sommer and the doings of his friends who I had watched grow up. We also discussed the short-sightedness of his mother in divorcing Uncle Mask forcing him to sell his house, After breakfast we strolled around the pond several times enjoying the summer-like weather. After that he set off to drive back to El Dorado Hills. As always I was sad to see him go.

I spent the remainder of the day before dinner sitting on the green sofa wondering what else, if anything of value I would get to today. The lay next to sleeping and now ant then letting out a short snort that would wake him up. He’d look around for a moment at though searching for whatever in his dream awakened him and then fall back to sleep. I could find nothing that interested me, my new novel borecoastald me, facebook was worse. I looked through Amazon for books that might interest me none did. I decided taking a nap probably had benefitted me more, but is was too close to dinnertime to do it now so I decided to just stare at the ceiling.

We had dinner with Corrine (Coco’s Mom) and Suellen (New Zealand) and talked a lot about food. After dinner I took Booboo for a Loog walk. The temperature was still high enough for me to forgo a jacket. We walked to the dog park where I sat on a bench and updated my phone.

Back at the apartment we watched TV and the sun slowly sinking below the horizon.

     “To a psychopath, there were no dark clouds, only silver linings. There were no moral hazards, only opportunities. Even with an impending arrest and possible jail time.”
                          — Darknet by Matthew Mather

I wonder what you’d call someone who sees only dark clouds and never a silver lining—someone who finds only moral hazards and no opportunities. A grump? A Baptist? Just plain dull?

I don’t know.

Me? I see both. Dark clouds and silver linings, moral hazards and opportunities—and yes, maybe even the occasional brush with the law. But most days, I can’t tell one from the other.

Does that make me unethical? Confused? Or just a storyteller?

I woke up this morning with Naida in my arms. I’d dreamt I was holding something divine. Not Venus—too mean. Not Hera—too vindictive. But a Naiad, like her name suggests—a nymph, a flowing spirit, a healer.

After we got up and dressed, I took the dog out for his morning walk. It felt like early summer—sunny, warm, and dry. I wore a short-sleeved shirt for the first time this year. Hawaiian shirt season is right around the corner. Soon I’ll be living in those beloved, loud prints until the Great Valley chill returns in the fall.

I sat on a warm bench, facing the sun, while Booboo sniffed every blade of grass, every lamppost, and every shadow, collecting the news of the morning. Once satisfied, he trotted back to me and sat down, clearly ready to head home—to breakfast.

We went down to the dining room. It was quiet—just us at our table, a few others scattered around. The water had been shut off for system repairs, so breakfast was delayed nearly an hour. Word was, the poor cook had to dash across to another building just to find a bathroom.

We missed the morning exercise session, so we returned to our apartment and drifted into our usual rhythms—Naida at her desk working on her memoir, and me, surfing the internet and calling it research.

At one point, I had a thought I felt was important—maybe even brilliant. But before I could write it down, it vanished. Rather than chase it, I went for a walk.

Outside, I noticed something new. For the first time this year, several of the residents were out on the shaded veranda, sitting in cushioned chairs. I waved as I passed, and they all waved back.

I headed up the levee trail by the river—the first time in ages. The weather was perfect, the view calming, and the walk didn’t wear me out like I’d feared. I passed the half-finished golf course, slipped through a gap in the fence, and circled\ back to Charon’s Rest.

Back at the apartment, Naida was out on the balcony with Booboo at her feet, reading Murder at Middle Fork, a murder mystery she co-wrote with her uncle, based on a true crime in Idaho years ago.

I took my spot on the right side of the couch, sipped the coffee Naida had made, and read for a while until it was time for dinner.

Dinner was quiet. We sat with Jim and Pat—The quiet couple—and chatted mostly about the food and service. I ordered a hot dog and fries. Dessert was chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup. That pretty much checked all my culinary boxes for the evening.

Later, we curled up and watched Dark, the German mystery series on Netflix. It’s weird, not very plausible, but completely addictive.

All in all, the warmth of the sun nudged the day up to “better than average.”

Between 6 and 8 a.m., I lay in bed drifting in and out of that sweet half-sleep, where dreams float by like lazy clouds. One dream stuck with me: I was in Italy visiting some distant relatives. They had a five-year-old boy with the attention span of a mayfly—adorable, wild, and utterly exhausting. For reasons I can’t explain, I took a shine to him. My sister, who was traveling with me, suggested we go out for dinner. I agreed, bringing along the pint-sized chaos machine. What followed was a dinner that was equal parts charming, maddening, and entirely unforgettable.

Eventually, I dragged myself out of bed, got dressed, and took the dog for a walk. I was still half-asleep, wandering around the lake like a confused tourist, barely aware I was at the end of the leash. On my way back, I bumped into Naida on her way to breakfast. I popped into the apartment, plopped Booboo out on the balcony with his food and water, and headed off to the dining room to join her.

Naida was already sitting with Marsha and the friendly lady from the Philippines—another dog owner. I joined the table, and we launched into an animated discussion about dogs, veterinarians, and who’s paying the most for flea treatments. This naturally segued into the more contentious topic of the morning: the service and quality of breakfast. Let’s just say there were no standing ovations.

After breakfast, we returned to our apartment. I picked up my current read: Darknet by Matthew Mather. It’s a techno-thriller about a Decentralized Autonomous Corporation (DAC) that starts knocking off its investors and critics while trying to take over global finance. Just your average beach read. Surprisingly, it offers a solid explanation of the Darknet and the spooky potential of DACs—something I’ve written about before, back when I was trying to sound smart. Mather had a good run writing about the dark side of emerging tech until he died in a car crash. Ironically, in his novels, it’s usually a rogue DAC doing the killing.

Sometime after noon, I felt a pang of guilt—surely I should be doing something more vigorous than sitting around reading about digital conspiracies. But Naida was off somewhere, and the dog was sound asleep, so I took it as a sign from the universe to continue being delightfully lazy.

Naida eventually returned, looking a bit frazzled and carrying a music book. She was distraught about her piano playing—not hitting the notes right, that sort of thing. I tried to reassure her: “At your age,” I said, in the most supportive tone I could manage, “it’s not about technical perfection. It’s about emotion, interpretation!” I even invoked Rubinstein—who in his later years famously missed notes but still moved people to tears. She wasn’t having it. So, I did what any wise man would do—I fled the apartment.

Outside, I was immediately hit by 85 degrees of blazing heat. Still, I marched toward the levee. At the top, instead of staying on the path like a rational human, I veered off down into the floodplain, crashing through bushes in search of the riverbank. Why? Because, apparently, I believe in answering nature’s call with overcommitment and a touch of heatstroke.

I bushwhacked through the undergrowth, keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes, black widows, and toxic masculinity. Eventually, I reached a bluff overlooking the river, snapped a few sweaty selfies for the archives, and made my way back. My route led past a bench I’d sat on a few weeks ago. I flopped down to catch my breath and take more photos—because nothing says “man versus wilderness” like a sun-drenched selfie.

I climbed back up the levee and returned to Charon’s Rest, passing several residents lounging contentedly on the veranda. They waved cheerfully. I waved back—less cheerfully, more sweatily.

Back at the apartment, Naida was deep in her memoir, the dog was snoring on the couch like it was his full-time job, and I collapsed next to him in solidarity. We stayed like that for a while, interrupted only by a phone call from someone interested in buying one of Naida’s novels. (A fan! We still have those.)

Later, we had dinner with Jim and Pat. We cracked jokes about the food, the service, and the general absurdity of growing old. Afterward, I took the dog out for a short walk, and then we settled in for the evening. Naida watched the news; I dove back into my novel.

Another odd little day in the great adventure of not doing much.

“I have reached an age when, if someone tells me to wear socks, I don’t have to.”

                        —Albert Einstein

It was a bit cooler this morning, but still sunny and pleasant, when I took the dog for his walk. At the dog park, we ran into Brian and Slate. While Slate and Booboo kept busy with doggy things, Brian told me that Slate is a Norwegian Elkhound trained as a certified companion animal for entertaining residents in assisted living facilities.

After the walk, Naida and I shared a quiet breakfast, then returned to our apartment and slipped back into our usual rhythms. For the past several days, my mind has been entangled in a question I can’t shake: Could a Decentralized Autonomous Corporation (DAC) be created to assume all the public functions of an individual—and continue operating long after that person’s death?

The answer, of course, is yes. Corporations—especially their newer, more autonomous variants—can, in theory, exist indefinitely. They don’t age, forget, or die. But something about that idea unsettles me. We are no longer dealing with systems governed by clear, human-written rules. We’ve entered a world where machines learn from data, not instructions—where they act based on patterns we may never fully understand.

What happens if they harm someone? If they kill? Who stands trial? Do we punish the coders? Dismantle the network? Pull the plug? The very concept of justice begins to blur when the actor is a machine beyond comprehension.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the broader meaning of our digital venture. I remember, back in the early 1990s, sitting with some of the pioneers of the internet age. They brimmed with confidence—This is the future, they said. And I believed them. I still do, to an extent. But their optimism didn’t account for ambiguity. Mathematics may model physical reality well, but words—words are slippery. The meaning of our statements, especially about the future, depends as much on the speaker and the listener as on the words themselves.

So what happens when machines, lacking empathy or context, take those words and act on them? What happens when sociopaths gain control of systems orders of magnitude more powerful than any government?

Here’s the chilling thought I keep returning to: What if humans are just a transitional phase—a biological bootstrap helping bring digital superintelligence into the world? It sounds paranoid, even melodramatic, but the more I think about it, the harder it is to dismiss.

Consider a simple scenario: suppose we develop a medicine that allows people to live healthy lives for a hundred years. It sounds like progress. But currently, only about 0.008% of the population reaches that age. If everyone did, we’d face catastrophic overpopulation. The great medical advances from 1850 to 1950 saved millions of children—but they also triggered a population explosion whose effects we’re still grappling with. Our good intentions outpaced our foresight.

So the question becomes: How do we pair innovation with an awareness of its unintended consequences? How do we make sure our progress doesn’t sow the seeds of ecological or social collapse?

That’s what I’m wrestling with. It’s not enough to ask whether something can be built. We must ask what happens if it succeeds. And maybe—just maybe—we need to teach our machines to ask that too.

I began to feel overwhelmed by the idea of developing these musings into something for T&T. I also felt depressed and ashamed that I was so afraid of criticism that I couldn’t share these thoughts with anyone beyond a small circle of friends. To shake off this self-defeating spiral and stick to my new exercise routine, I decided to go for a walk.

Although the temperature was in the low to mid-60s, the gusty March wind was brutal. I walked to the nearby Starbucks for a coffee, hoping the wind would die down while I sipped. No such luck. So, I pulled my hat tightly onto my head and took the long way around to the levee. I followed the path along the unprotected levee to the spot where a broken fence usually allows a shortcut back to Charon’s Rest. But when I arrived, I discovered the hole had been sealed. I had to retrace my steps and take the long route home.

When I got back to the apartment, I discovered that Naida and the dog had gone out. A few minutes later, they returned. She had planned to take Booboo for a walk but encountered a lone, unleashed dog prowling the halls. Booboo and the strange dog launched into a barking, snarling standoff. The walk was abandoned, and Naida returned to the apartment in high dudgeon.

Exhausted from my walk, I took a long nap. When I woke up, Naida was sitting at the desk, reading Black Sun of the Miwok. I took Booboo for another walk, this one calmer than the last.

Later, Naida and I went out for dinner, though neither of us was feeling particularly spry. Back at the apartment, we tried to watch TV but ended up squabbling over the remote. Naida stormed off to bed in a huff, and I was left sitting alone in the dark with only the glow of my Mac for company.

Well, tomorrow is another day.

“If you can’t remember your life, can you truly be said to be alive?”

                         David Owen.

Well, there have been few days could recall less of what I have been up to than today. Perhaps I was not truly alive. I am hopeful to be born anew tomorrow. 

         Life is unfair. If you’re good at something there will always be someone better than you. Equality is a lie. There is no such thing as deserving. Now, go enjoy your day.

During the night, I had some fascinating dreams. I revisited some of the dreams I used to have years ago when they were a significant part of my life. I would live in these dream worlds and return to them again and again, sometimes for years.

Last night, among the dreams, I revisited an apartment I used to spend a lot of time in during the ’90s, if I recall correctly. I lived in a building on a side street, one block off the main road. I’m not sure what city it was in; sometimes it was San Francisco, and other times it was Hong Kong. The building had been built and owned by a miserly, obnoxious old man who had never completed the common areas. Climbing the stairs and walking the halls to and from my apartment was always a challenge.

Last night, I returned to the site of the building. The old man had torn down the original structure and replaced it with several high-rises. I still had an apartment there in one of the buildings, and it had a very nice view. I also dreamt I had returned to Hong Kong, where I used to visit in a different dream and meet with clients planning to redevelop part of the city. This time, I was visiting a different family than the developers. The dream was set in the present, and I discussed my prior experiences before walking through the neighborhood, looking for some of my old haunts.

Although I woke up in relatively good spirits, I lazed about a bit, so Naida took the dog out for its morning walk. Later, Naida and I went downstairs for breakfast. The dining room was empty except for Mr. Mac, who sat alone at a table by a window. We joined him and wondered at the emptiness of the place as we ordered. Soon, we were joined by Barbara, the 100-year-old pistol.

Our conversation started with pondering the absence of other diners. Then, naturally, we pivoted to the latest transgressions of the Trump administration. The absurd abolition of fluoridation in drinking water took center stage. Eventually, a significant portion of our discussion focused on me and my inability to hear the conversation because my hearing aid batteries died.

Since I could no longer follow much of what was being said, I took over the conversation, regaling the table with stories of Pookie and the Mafia. We eventually agreed it was time to return to our apartments.

Back in our apartment, Naida and I became so engrossed in staring at the walls, waiting for it to be time for our morning exercise session, that we missed it entirely.

As the day continued, Naida teetered on the edge of stir-crazy, and I was desperate enough to agree to forgo my usual solo health walk and bring her and Booboo along. It relaxed both of us (though not the dog).

Later, while I was reviewing the poetry section of my blog, Papa Joe’s Tales, Fables, and Parables, Naida sat down next to me. We perused it together. Among the hundreds of poems by real poets, there were a few by me, a few by Naida, and a whole bunch by The Old Sailor. Here’s one I wrote about Naida:

          You are the bright light

          hiding dark shadows,

          the moon that reveals

          silent hidden paths.

         With your arms around me

         fear stalls and fails away 

         and fortune fills my dreams.

         No yesterday’s memories

         nor tomorrow’s dreams remain, 

         only your breath on my neck.

And here is one by Naida:

         In slow rhythm, I awoke in a bundle

         of comfort and peace made of arms and legs

         and torsos in sync with your low-pitched

         intake of breath from our air-pool, forehead

         snug against cheek, and then our exhale moans

         through my chest while somewhere deep

         in our bundle a spark flares to another beat.

         I love you tells only half what I feel

         when you are the other half of me.

And one by The Old Sailor about The Cross Dresser of St. Thomas:

      Stthomas

    … around the time of airport construction….

    At ANTILLES Boatyard..

    REMRMBER THE CROSS -DRESSER

    Cross-Dress…GERMAN – –

    …BOAT WITH PINK DECK…””OOTS –

    Bous””

    >>++Wore tits around the boat yard

    ((AND PANTIES))..under an overcoat….=÷=

    “”SAID ALL

    the Psychiatrists…in GERMANY

    …Could NOT help Me…. .

    ..DIED at the bar …with MtGay Rum

  coastal  On Sun, Aug 9, 2020, 1:55 AM <[email protected]

After that we read a book of poetry titles From Hell to Jackson Hole by Michael L. Johnson that Naida had published back in about 2001. It, in its own way, is perhaps one of the best books on the history of the Old West I have ever read. Here are sone short poems:

          1. The Rise and Fall of Bartholomew “Bat” Masterson.

                Buffalo Hunter, fell gunfighter,

                Lawman, bar dog, blowhard, sportswriter.

          2. Dr Brewster Higley, the man who wrote “Home on the Range.”

               Whatever the sweetscenes his rhymes

                rehearse. He was married five times

               and often undoubtably heard

               many a discouraging word.

          3, Wild West Haiku No.4

               Wife split, fortune blown

                    dreamy Henry Comstock drifts

                         north, then shoots himself.

After reading all this poetry, Naida realized that it was getting on to dinnertime and we had not walked the dog so she jumped up and left the apartment dragging Booboo behind her. I continued reading poetry but decided not to include anymore of it here.

The last hour until dinnertime passed like minutes in a dental chair.

We went downstairs when we heard the sound of music, jazz to be precise, the sweet mellow sounds of a saxophone. Naida went first following he ears and I followed shortly thereafter. There in the lobby we spend about an hour listening and in Naida’s case dancing to the music before we went into the dining room for dinner.

Returning from dinner, Naida seemed to be struggling. I checked her pulse shortly after reentering our apartment. I seem odd, five beats a pair, another two beats, and another pause. We decided to go to bed early and call her daughter’s tomorrow to make an appointment with Kaiser for a check up.

Naida seemed to be feeling a bit better when we woke up this morning. After a quick dog walk, we had breakfast with the quiet couple. Back in the apartment, Naida promptly fell asleep on the sofa, and I caught up on the latest happenings in cyberspace. At around 11, I headed downstairs for the Drama Club meeting. Besides the moderator and me, Pat, Gwen, and a mysterious blank spot in my memory attended. Pat was eager to have her grandson re-edit the script draft I had written. Apparently, he’s all set to let AI take a crack at a second draft. Brave soul.

The rest of the meeting was spent brainstorming all the humorous mishaps and foibles of our fellow residents for inclusion in the revised script. Truly, the material writes itself around here.

Afterward, I returned to the apartment where Naida was reading. I joined her for a bit of quiet reading time before my eyelids staged a protest. Realizing it was nearly 2 p.m., I gave in and took a well-deserved nap. Naida, being the more responsible one, took Booboo for his afternoon walk.

Later, we went down for dinner. The dining room was empty when we arrived, but soon Suellen (the New Zealander) and Corrine (Coco’s mom) joined us at our usual table by the window. Over the course of the meal, we engaged in a hilariously animated discussion about dogs — Booboo, Coco, past canine companions, and even the eccentric pups of River’s Edge. Dinner conversations then seamlessly shifted into a round of culinary critiques about the food at River’s Edge. Let’s just say Michelin isn’t coming anytime soon.

After dinner, Naida returned to her computer for a little nostalgic email browsing, while I caught up with Hayden and Jason on the phone. Hayden was off in Santa Cruz with his girlfriend for the weekend. We made plans to meet for lunch on either Tuesday or Wednesday. Jason and I mainly talked golf, with a side of updates about Anthony. My granddaughter Amanda is spending her spring break with Jason and Hiromi, so I got a chance to chat with her too. She proudly informed me that she’s chosen pharmacology as her major at UC San Diego. Pharmacology! Looks like we’ll have a future Dr. Amanda in the family.

The rest of the evening unfolded as usual. Some TV, a bit of reading, an aimless meander through the internet, a few rounds of dog-petting, and the occasional conversation with Naida. The simple joys of a Saturday night.

And that’s all, folks.

     “It’s unusual to get good original scientific ideas from a lawyer.”

                         — Judgment Day: Science of Discworld IV: A Novel by Terry Pratchett

Actually, as a one-time practitioner of the legal arts, I can confidently state that it’s unusual to get any good original ideas of any kind from a lawyer. Their stock-in-trade is applying old, worn-out ideas to current problems. Originality, scientific or not, is a good way for a lawyer to go broke.

Last night was rough. I woke up several times, pacing from the bed to the sofa and back again—twice. Too hot, too cold, too dizzy, too dry, too itchy. Sometimes all at once, sometimes one at a time. And the dreams! Like swarms of wasps, they buzzed through my head, making sleep impossible.

In the morning, Naida walked the dog while I tried to shake off the night. When they returned, we went downstairs for breakfast. The quiet couple, Jim and Pat, joined us. Naida kicked things off by describing how ergot poison is used to induce abortions in sheep when carrying the fetus to term might kill the mother. Then she casually mentioned how her grandmother fed ergot to her mom in an unsuccessful attempt to abort her older brother. While he grew up to be a talented artist and singer, he struggled with behavioral and learning difficulties throughout his life.

From there, she brought up St. Vitus Dance, the so-called “dancing sickness” caused by ergot-contaminated grains. We were mid-discussion when Pat suddenly spoke up. I was so startled—it had been nearly a year since I last heard her say anything—that I can’t recall what she said. Still, it shifted the conversation. Jim, for reasons known only to him, mentioned Greenwich Village. Naturally, I launched into stories about its street-level ethnic divisions (Mulberry Street, Italian; Mott Street, Jewish), my own experiences living there, and the neighborhood’s evolution. I rambled about the art scene’s migration westward, from the Village to the West Side, then spreading to San Francisco, New Orleans, Chicago, and Tennessee before inevitably becoming a corporate venture in Los Angeles.

After breakfast, Naida and I returned to our apartment and spent the morning reading. In the early afternoon, I ventured to Raley’s for some shopping. The wind nearly blew me off my feet, and I had to clutch my hat to keep it from taking flight. Back home, I unloaded my indulgent purchases: four bars of dark chocolate stuffed with caramel and sea salt, two tubs of ice cream, a box of San Francisco Bay Coffee (Fog Chaser pods), two boxes of Nonni’s Lemon Biscotti, a bag of lightly salted pistachio nuts, some mouthwash, and melatonin. Essentials, clearly.

Naida was lounging on the sofa, engrossed in a copy of the San Francisco Examiner she had pilfered from the lobby. She read aloud a story about sea lions attacking surfers along the coast from Monterey to San Francisco. Apparently, the sea lions had been munching on algae laced with a psychedelic toxin, turning them into deranged, surf-hating maniacs. Climate change strikes again! Forget rising sea levels; the real threat is drug-crazed marine mammals. Imagine whales, sharks, and dolphins going berserk and storming coastal towns like some low-budget horror flick.

Another article described a British scientific study on Avian Road Rage. Birds living near roads, it seems, are angrier than their rural cousins. No word on whether they tailgate or cut each other off mid-flight.

The more she read, the more absurd the stories became. Eventually, she gave up on the news and flipped to the obituaries, treating me to a curated selection of grim anecdotes. It left me wondering: Have newspapers always been this sensational, or are they just desperately competing with TV dramas and political fiascos?

Dinner was with Corrine (Coco’s Mom) and Suellen (from New Zealand). For once, the conversation wasn’t all about dogs, though Corrine did gleefully share that she’s now watching over Ronny, the dog of a former California State Transportation Department employee who recently moved to Charon’s Rest. Seven years ago, Ronny was rescued from the pound to keep the man’s wife company during her final days. With the man expected to live only another six months, he’s arranged for Corrine to adopt Ronny permanently. It’s bittersweet, but Corrine is thrilled to have a new furry friend after losing her beloved Chihuahua, Coco, just a few months ago.

Laundry Night Marathon

After dinner, we tackled the closets. Clothes were piled high into the cart and dragged to the laundry room on our floor. It took the whole evening. Mostly Naida did the work while I provided moral support. By the time we crawled into bed, we were both completely exhausted.

Here’s hoping tonight’s dreams are a little less apocalyptic.

     “In my next life I will try to commit more errors.”

                          Jorge Luis Borges

It is age last day or March. I walked the dog. During breakfast it rained as hard outside our window as I have seen in a log time. We returned to are apartment. As far as I am concerned I’ve had enough of March. See you in April.

”While roaming through Quora I stumbled upon a post that struck me—not as mere conspiracy theorizing, but as a chillingly plausible insight into the state of American politics and the ambitions of a small group of powerful tech billionaires. The original post outlined a growing movement under the banner of “Dark MAGA,” a term many might dismiss as fringe internet rhetoric. However, on closer inspection, it reflects real-world connections and actions by real people with real influence. This is not the Illuminati—where the leader was a Bavarian bureaucrat, not the Pope—or the fanciful world of Morning of the Magicians, where Templars were already relegated to the footnotes of history. This is a living, breathing political and ideological movement, backed by immense wealth and intellect.

Below for copyright reasons reduced version of the original post, with deletions marked by dashes and followed by a reasoned argument justifying the reality—not the paranoia—behind the claims.

Dark MAGA —

If you’re confused about what Musk is trying to achieve with DOGE, here’s the breakdown:

Elon Musk and Peter Thiel cofounded — PayPal.Other PayPal execs went on to lead — YouTube, LinkedIn, Reddit, Affirm — many VC firms.This group became known as the PayPal mafia — they — controlled Silicon Valley.

Peter Thiel mentored — JD Vance and helped — his first VC firm.Thiel and the PayPal mafia funded JD Vance’s Senate run. — he had — zero political experience.Thiel and Musk — pushed Trump to choose JD Vance as VP in exchange for campaign funding.

They — and other tech billionaires — follow an ideology called the Dark Enlightenment, developed by Curtis Yarvin aka Mencius Moldbug.Yarvin says media and academia are “The Cathedral” — secretly controlling power — and must be dismantled.

He advocates a monarchy run by a CEO-Dictator.Democracy, he says, is “outdated software.”

Government agencies — should be dismantled.

The U.S. broken into “patchworks” run by tech oligarchs.

Elites should rule — they’re intelligent enough to “fix” society.

The “masses are asses” — too dumb to govern.

The strategy: dismantle government via R.A.G.E — Retire All Govt Employees — make it inoperable.Then replace it with private corporations.Eliminate elections as “obsolete.”Use chaos and distraction to prevent resistance.

Trump is a tool — to be discarded once power shifts.

This is why Elon wears a black MAGA hat.They aren’t Trump supporters — they are “Dark MAGA.”

This isn’t hypothetical. The plan is already in motion:

Musk, Thiel, and others are weakening democratic institutions.

JD Vance is positioned to help.

The public is too distracted to notice.

If successful, democracy in America will be replaced by corporate authoritarianism.

Volodymyr Vlad Kunko

Justification & Insight

At first glance, this might resemble the scaffolding of a conspiracy theory, but the difference lies in the transparency of its actors. Elon Musk and Peter Thiel are not shadowy figures; they are highly public, incredibly wealthy, and openly ideological. Their actions, donations, and affiliations are documented, not speculative. Curtis Yarvin, the intellectual core of this ideology, publishes prolifically under his real name and pseudonym. His advocacy for dismantling democracy and empowering tech elites isn’t veiled—it’s plainly stated.

What makes this movement distinct from historical conspiracies is its realism. Unlike the imagined grandeur of the Illuminati or the mystical overtones of Morning of the Magicians, this ideology has institutional backing: venture capital, media control, and algorithmic influence. The so-called “Cathedral” Yarvin seeks to destroy is not a fantasy—it refers to academia and mainstream media, which indeed wield cultural influence. The danger arises when this cultural critique morphs into a blueprint for technocratic autocracy.

The Dark Enlightenment isn’t operating in secrecy. It’s counting on the public to be too fragmented, too distracted, or too cynical to notice or care. Social media has made the spread of such ideas seamless. The erosion of public trust in democratic institutions has made their replacement seem, to some, like a reasonable alternative. This movement doesn’t need to hide. It thrives on attention and disbelief.

It’s crucial to recognize that movements do not require universal approval to succeed—only enough momentum and power consolidation. JD Vance’s transformation from best-selling author to potential Vice President is emblematic of this machinery at work. He didn’t rise through conventional political channels. He was inserted, trained, and funded—a test case for a new political model.

The most terrifying thing about “Dark MAGA” is not that it may succeed through violent overthrow or overt fascism. It may succeed because we let it—because elections feel broken, because bureaucracy feels slow, because billionaires feel more competent than politicians. The danger is not in the shadows. It’s in plain sight.

In sum, this isn’t tinfoil hat territory. This is a plausible, ongoing reformation of political power—a transformation fueled by money, ideology, and disillusionment with democracy itself. We must take these patterns seriously not because they conform to old conspiracies but because they break new ground. In the 21st century, the revolution won’t be televised—it will be live streamed by billionaires wearing black MAGA hats.

Note: This insight is not a stand alone opinion. For example in an October 2021 an article the American Behavioral Scientist 67(3):000276422110465 DOI:10.1177/00027642211046557 a somewhat similar generalization had been voiced”

This essay argues that the insurrection at the United States Capitol on January 6, 2021, can be partially explained by the rise of what we call presidential eschatology, a religious master narrative that represents a historic shift from presidents appealing to God to presidents becoming a messiah figure. More specifically, we trace President Trump’s embrace of this kind of religious discourse—which we contend is a form of weaponized political communication aiming to undermine democracy—to his acceptance of a millennialist narrative fashioned by QAnon conspiracy theorists. Through a close reading of primary sources from the movement, the study illustrates how these eschatological themes surfaced in QAnon’s discourse and were exploited by Trump and his allies as they sought to overturn the 2020 presidential election.

Who is Curtis Guy Yarvin, Why Should We Fear Him, and What Can We Do About It?

Curtis Guy Yarvin—better known by his pen name Mencius Moldbug—is not a household name, but he may be one of the most dangerous thinkers in American politics today. He is the intellectual godfather of the “Dark Enlightenment,” a neo-reactionary movement that explicitly rejects democracy, embraces authoritarian rule, and envisions a future led by unelected technocratic elites.

Yarvin’s ideology doesn’t hide behind coded language or ambiguous phrasing. In essays and blog posts published over nearly two decades, he has advocated for the dismantling of liberal democratic institutions, the replacement of elected governments with CEO-style monarchies, and the “rebooting” of America into a series of “patchwork” city-states ruled by private interests. Democracy, he argues, is “outdated software.” Instead, Yarvin promotes what he calls “neocameralism”—a privatized state run like a corporation, where citizens are effectively shareholders and the executive holds absolute power.

What makes Yarvin uniquely dangerous is not just the extremity of his views, but the fact that they are being adopted, funded, and implemented by powerful individuals in real-time.

“Yarvin has the ear of influential tech billionaires like Peter Thiel—co-founder of PayPal and an early backer of Facebook—who has openly criticized democracy and poured millions into campaigns for authoritarian-leaning candidates like JD Vance. Thiel’s involvement in shaping right-wing politics is well-documented (New York Times, 2022). Yarvin himself has reportedly briefed Thiel personally on political theory and has been photographed attending events alongside members of this so-called “PayPal mafia”—a cabal of Silicon Valley elites with immense influence over the tech economy, media, and increasingly, the political system.

This is not theoretical. JD Vance, once a critic of Trump and now a U.S. Senator, was politically resuscitated through Thiel’s financial support. He parrots many of Yarvin’s talking points, from hostility toward the “Cathedral” (Yarvin’s term for the media and universities) to support for authoritarian governance. The same infrastructure positioned Vance as a running mate to Donald Trump in 2024, placing Yarvin’s ideology potentially one heartbeat away from the presidency.

Why should we fear Curtis Yarvin? Because his ideas are no longer fringe. They are being normalized and embedded into real policy conversations—disguised as solutions to inefficiency, corruption, and bureaucratic bloat. It’s seductive to say democracy is broken, that elites should rule, that technocrats are more competent than elected officials. Yarvin doesn’t need to convince everyone—he just needs to convince a few billionaires and help install a few key leaders.

We should also fear the method by which these ideas are spreading. Through blogs, podcasts, think pieces, and the amplification of social media algorithms, Yarvin’s ideology bypasses traditional checks of academic or journalistic rigor. His audience is not just college contrarians and edgelords. It’s tech CEOs, venture capitalists, and political operatives with real power and ambition.

So what can we do about it?

1. Expose the ideology. Curtis Yarvin should not be treated as a quirky intellectual or niche blogger. He is an anti-democratic propagandist whose ideas have already influenced national leaders. Journalists, educators, and activists must name and dissect his ideology plainly and regularly. Sunlight is still the best disinfectant.

2. Demand accountability from tech elites. Billionaires like Thiel and Musk have transcended the business world to become political kingmakers. It is no longer acceptable to treat them as eccentric geniuses operating outside the system. They are trying to reshape the system. Regulatory scrutiny, media transparency, and civic pressure must follow their political investments as closely as their financial ones.

3. Reinvest in democratic legitimacy. Yarvinism thrives in the vacuum left by public disillusionment. The best antidote to neoreactionary authoritarianism is not more outrage—it’s better governance. Civic engagement, electoral reform, and local activism matter now more than ever. If people believe democracy works, they will defend it.

4. Educate the next generation. Yarvin’s writing is dense, often obtuse, and dripping with elitist disdain. But it appeals to young men in particular who feel alienated or disempowered. Countering that appeal means creating inclusive narratives of civic empowerment, not simply condemning the darkness.

In short, Curtis Guy Yarvin isn’t some shadowy puppet master. He’s worse—he’s an ideologue with followers in high places, intent on dismantling democracy from the inside out. We ignore him at our peril.

DO YOU WANT TO LIVE IN A DEMOCRACY (OR A REPUBLIC) OR WOULD YOU RATHER LIVE IN A HIGH-TECH AUTOCRATIC THEOCRACY?

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     Never Urinate on a Rattlesnake 

Summary of “The Befuddled Trump Team Haven’t Read ‘All The President’s Men’. They Should Do So Now.”

In a recent Substack blog published by The West Point History Professor, the author draws striking parallels between the turmoil within the Trump administration and the Watergate scandal. The blog asserts that Trump’s team has been compromised by a calculated series of leaks, allegedly orchestrated by a clandestine group within the Pentagon and National Security Council. This covert network, described as a “cell,” uses the strategic “art of the leak” to undermine Trump’s authority by embarrassing and exposing security failures.

The author presents two significant examples of these leaks. The first involves Elon Musk, who was set to receive a classified military briefing about the defense of Taiwan. Hours before the scheduled meeting, the press was alerted, leading to public outrage and embarrassment. The second example involves a Signal text chain in which the editor of The Atlantic was inexplicably added to a private group chat discussing missile strikes against Houthi leadership in Yemen. Both incidents compromised national security and exposed the administration’s lack of operational discipline.

In an evocative comparison, the author likens the situation to the Watergate scandal, drawing a connection to Mark Felt, the Deputy FBI Director known as “Deep Throat.” Felt’s calculated leaks to journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein ultimately led to Nixon’s downfall. The blog suggests that a similar force is now at play, using the media to destabilize Trump’s administration.

The author further criticizes the Trump team’s lack of competence, arguing that the absence of experienced military aides and the disregard for basic security measures have made the administration particularly vulnerable to sabotage. The cumulative effect of these incidents, according to the author, is a growing perception of Trump as an incompetent and dangerous leader.

Ultimately, the blog warns that without decisive action, the Trump administration will continue to face destabilizing leaks. The reference to All the President’s Men serves as both a historical lesson and a cautionary tale for Trump and his team, highlighting the dangers of unchecked internal dissent.

Critique of “The Befuddled Trump Team Haven’t Read ‘All The President’s Men’. They Should Do So Now.”

While The West Point History Professor delivers a compelling narrative of political intrigue, the blog’s analysis often leans heavily on speculation. The assertion that a coordinated “cell” is systematically dismantling Trump’s administration lacks concrete evidence. While the leaks are undeniable, attributing them to a well-organized conspiracy without exploring alternative explanations weakens the credibility of the argument.

Additionally, the comparison to Watergate, though dramatic, may not be entirely appropriate. Mark Felt’s actions were driven by a moral opposition to Nixon’s corruption. In contrast, the motives behind these recent leaks remain uncertain. It is possible that the disclosures stem from internal rivalries, incompetence, or individual opportunism rather than a coordinated effort to topple the administration. The blog’s assumption that Trump’s opponents possess the same moral clarity as Felt oversimplifies a complex situation.

Another notable drawback is the tone of the piece. The frequent use of hyperbolic language, describing Trump’s “meltdown” and the administration’s “humiliation,” undermines the analysis. A more measured tone would have strengthened the blog’s credibility and broadened its appeal.

Furthermore, the blog misses an opportunity to suggest constructive responses. Instead of focusing solely on the inevitability of Trump’s downfall, it could have explored practical countermeasures the administration might take to regain stability. Offering actionable insights would have made the analysis more balanced and valuable.

That said, the blog’s core message remains relevant. It serves as a stark reminder of the vulnerabilities of inexperienced leadership and the importance of maintaining operational security. The leaks, whether intentional acts of sabotage or unintended consequences of internal mismanagement, underscore the risks faced by any administration lacking competent governance.

In conclusion, while The West Point History Professor offers an engaging and provocative take on the current state of the Trump administration, a more balanced and evidence-based approach would have enhanced the blog’s overall effectiveness. Nevertheless, it successfully captures the tension and uncertainty surrounding the ongoing leaks, leaving readers with much to consider about the fragility of political power.

Brad DeLong recently responded to Gene Ludwig’s provocative argument that government economic statistics misrepresented the true state of the U.S. economy leading up to the 2024 election. Ludwig contends that official unemployment figures, particularly the widely cited U-3 rate, fail to account for the millions who are underemployed, discouraged, or earning inadequate wages. He suggests that a more accurate unemployment rate, one that includes those who are functionally unemployed due to low wages or part-time status, is closer to 23.7% rather than the reported 4.2%.

DeLong, however, pushes back, asserting that Ludwig’s concerns are not new—the Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) has long provided alternative unemployment measures, such as U-6, which includes underemployed workers. While he acknowledges that a U-7 metric, which would measure whether workers earn enough to make ends meet, could be valuable, he rejects Ludwig’s framing that economic conditions in 2024 were exceptionally misrepresented. DeLong argues that, by historical standards, the labor market was one of the strongest since the 1960s, rivaling the late Clinton and pre-pandemic Trump years.

So why did voters feel the economy was in decline? DeLong offers two long-term explanations: (1) for non-college-educated men, real wages have stagnated since 1980, leading to generational disappointment, and (2) the wealth gap has grown dramatically, with today’s plutocrats enjoying immense wealth that makes the average worker feel relatively poorer.

However, DeLong’s primary culprit for the disconnect between economic data and voter sentiment is right-wing media disinformation. He argues that conservative outlets convinced voters that crime, inflation, and immigration were far worse than they actually were. He believes that many voters, even those personally doing well, were misled into thinking the country was in crisis. This manufactured pessimism, he warns, poses a long-term threat to democracy.

Critique of DeLong’s Argument

DeLong’s critique is insightful but incomplete. His dismissal of Ludwig’s concern over flawed statistics is somewhat justified—BLS does provide multiple measures of unemployment—but it also risks minimizing the real economic struggles of many Americans. Just because job numbers looked strong on paper does not mean that workers did not experience financial stress due to inflation, rising housing costs, or job insecurity. DeLong’s argument that economic conditions were historically strong fails to fully acknowledge that people’s lived experiences often diverge from statistical representations.

Moreover, his focus on right-wing media manipulation, while important, is overly simplistic. While disinformation undoubtedly influences public perception, economic sentiment is not solely shaped by media narratives. Many voters likely felt financial strain regardless of what cable news told them. DeLong’s framing risks coming across as dismissive, reinforcing the perception that economic elites do not take working-class struggles seriously.

However, DeLong’s broader warning about the dangers of misinformation is well-founded. He correctly identifies the political risks of media-driven economic pessimism and highlights how misinformation has become a structural problem in American democracy. Still, by concentrating so heavily on the role of conservative media, he overlooks the real structural economic challenges—automation, globalization, and wage stagnation—that have contributed to voter discontent.

In the end, DeLong effectively rebuts Ludwig’s claim that economic data was uniquely misleading in 2024 but underestimates the economic anxiety that fueled voter skepticism. His focus on media-driven disinformation is compelling, but a more balanced analysis would also acknowledge the material economic pressures that shaped public perception. The real challenge lies not just in correcting misinformation but in addressing the systemic economic issues that continue to leave many Americans feeling left behind.

*https://braddelong.substack.com/p/blame-the-right-wing-noise-machine?publication_id=47874&post_id=157160795&triggerShare=true&isFreemail=true&r=bzx0n&triedRedirect=true

Throughout history, the contributions of women in science and art have often been overlooked or diminished. One such forgotten woman is Marianne North (24 October 1830 – 30 August 1890), an extraordinary Victorian biologist and botanical artist. North defied the conventions of her time, traveling the world independently to document its flora with scientific precision and artistic brilliance. Her tireless work, culminating in the creation of the Marianne North Gallery at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, remains a testament to her talent and perseverance.

Early Life and Education

Born into a privileged English family in Hastings, Marianne North was the eldest daughter of Frederick North, a Member of Parliament, and Janet Marjoribanks North. Her father was a liberal thinker, a fact that undoubtedly shaped Marianne’s outlook on life. While she initially trained as a vocalist under Charlotte Helen Sainton-Dolby, a failed voice led her to shift her focus to painting flowers.

Her interest in botany was encouraged by her father, whose acquaintance with Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker, the director of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, likely played a role in shaping her scientific inclinations. After her mother’s death in 1855, she spent much of her time traveling with her father, deepening her appreciation for nature. Following his passing in 1869, North resolved to pursue her dream of capturing the plant life of distant lands on canvas.

A Life of Adventure and Artistic Dedication

Marianne North’s decision to travel the world unaccompanied was highly unconventional for a Victorian woman. Between 1871 and 1872, she visited Canada, the United States, Jamaica, and Brazil. Her time in Brazil was particularly formative, as she spent an entire year painting in the depths of the rainforest. Encouraged by renowned landscape painter Frederic Edwin Church, she sought to document nature’s beauty with accuracy and vibrancy.

The breadth of her travels is astonishing. In 1875, she embarked on a global journey, painting in California, Japan, Borneo, Java, and Ceylon. She was among the first to depict the redwood forests of California, recognizing even then the threat posed to these majestic trees. Her concern for environmental conservation prefigured modern ecological movements, demonstrating an awareness far ahead of her time. She spent all of 1878 in India, capturing its botanical splendor in stunning detail.

In 1878, she exhibited 512 of her paintings in London to critical acclaim. The exhibition was widely praised for its accuracy and artistic merit, with one critic highlighting her “freedom of hand, purity and brilliancy of color, and the accurate draftsmanship of a consummate artist.”

The Kew Gallery and Scientific Contributions

Marianne North’s legacy was cemented when she offered her entire collection to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, along with funds to build a gallery to house them. This offer was accepted, and in 1882, the Marianne North Gallery was opened to the public. The gallery housed 800 oil paintings depicting plant species from around the world—an unparalleled feat in botanical art.

At the suggestion of Charles Darwin, North traveled to Australia in 1880, capturing its unique flora with remarkable precision. Darwin himself was so impressed with her work that he personally recommended plants for her to document. Her paintings of Banksia attenuata, Banksia grandis, and Banksia robur were widely praised for their accuracy and aesthetic appeal.

Her final years were spent continuing her work in South Africa, the Seychelles, and Chile. However, declining health eventually forced her to retire to Alderley, Gloucestershire, where she passed away in 1890. Her legacy was further immortalized in the scientific names of several plants, including Areca northiana, Chassalia northiana, and Nepenthes northiana, among others.

A Legacy Reclaimed

Despite her extraordinary achievements, Marianne North remains a relatively obscure figure in history. She was a pioneer who broke societal expectations, refusing to conform to the traditional roles imposed on women of her time. Her work provided an invaluable scientific and artistic record of plant species from around the globe, long before photography became a practical option.

Today, the Marianne North Gallery at Kew Gardens remains the only permanent solo exhibition by a female artist in Britain. Her influence endures not only in the world of botanical illustration but also in the broader context of women’s contributions to science and art. In 2008, Kew Gardens received a substantial grant to restore the gallery, ensuring that her work continues to inspire future generations.

The recognition of Marianne North’s contributions has been slow, but recent efforts have sought to rectify this historical oversight. In 2016, the BBC documentary Kew’s Forgotten Queen brought renewed attention to her life and work. Nevertheless, her name deserves to be as well-known as those of her male contemporaries.

Marianne North was a trailblazer, a woman who defied expectations and left behind a legacy of art and science that remains invaluable. In honoring her, we take a step toward correcting the historical neglect of women’s contributions and ensuring that their impact is rightfully acknowledged. Her story is not just one of artistic brilliance but of resilience, courage, and an unyielding passion for discovery—qualities that continue to inspire today.

Obedience, Authority, and Climate Paralysis

Reassessing the Milgram Analogy in the Age of Trump

In Climate Catastrophe and Stanley Milgram’s Electric Shock “Obedience” Experiments: An Uncanny Analogy, authors Nestar Russell and Annette Bolton explore a deeply unsettling parallel: the same psychological mechanisms that enabled participants in Milgram’s famous obedience experiments to inflict pain on others may also be operating today, enabling societal inaction in the face of climate catastrophe. Their analysis is incisive and timely. Yet, to fully grasp the political implications of their analogy, it is essential to examine how certain political figures—most notably, the Trump administration—have not only mirrored but actively weaponized the very dynamics Milgram identified. In doing so, they have magnified the “Milgram effect” on a mass scale, turning democratic disengagement and climate denial into instruments of political strategy.

Understanding the Analogy: Milgram Meets Climate Inaction

Russell and Bolton begin by acknowledging a troubling paradox: despite the public’s growing awareness of climate change over the past several decades, greenhouse gas emissions have only continued to rise. Why, in the face of overwhelming scientific consensus and worsening environmental consequences, do so many remain passive or even resistant to change?

They propose that Stanley Milgram’s obedience experiments provide insight. In the 1960s, Milgram famously demonstrated that ordinary people, when placed in a system that sanctions authority and diffuses responsibility, will obey commands that result in the suffering of others. Participants in his study administered what they believed were painful electric shocks to a stranger simply because an authority figure instructed them to do so. Most continued even as the “victim” protested in distress.

Russell and Bolton draw a provocative analogy:

The authors argue that much like Milgram’s participants, many citizens operate within systems that abstract and compartmentalize harm, making it psychologically easier to comply with destructive norms. Obedience becomes not an act of malice, but a byproduct of normalization and structural coercion.

The Milgram Effect and the Trump Era

While Russell and Bolton’s analogy is illuminating, it leaves unexamined how obedience can be cultivated and intensified through political strategy. The Trump administration provides a vivid case study in how Milgram’s findings have been employed—consciously or not—to encourage compliance, stifle dissent, and deepen the crisis of climate inaction.

1. Manufacturing Authoritative Legitimacy

In Milgram’s experiments, the authority figure—symbolized by a lab coat—projected legitimacy that encouraged obedience. Likewise, the Trump administration crafted a carefully curated image of infallibility, supported by partisan media outlets and a robust online propaganda apparatus. Scientific dissent, especially regarding climate change, was routinely attacked. Experts were labeled as politically motivated, elitist, or fraudulent.

This framing established a false dichotomy: to obey the authority was patriotic; to question it was un-American. The space for critical engagement was squeezed out.

2. Diffusing and Deflecting Responsibility

Trump and his allies employed misinformation and strategic deflection to relieve citizens of personal responsibility. By shifting blame to other countries, casting doubt on climate science, and labeling environmentalism as a partisan or globalist agenda, they normalized inaction.

In this way, citizens could participate in a harmful system without perceiving themselves as morally complicit—a direct parallel to Milgram’s subjects who continued delivering shocks while claiming they were “just following orders.”

3. Bureaucratic Obedience and Institutional Sabotage

Within federal agencies, the administration reshaped environmental policy through top-down directives that punished dissent and rewarded compliance. Whistleblowers were demoted or dismissed; environmental protections were rolled back by executive decree. Scientists were silenced, and decision-making power was consolidated among political loyalists.

As in Milgram’s study, the system enabled functionaries to carry out harmful tasks with a sense of bureaucratic detachment, reinforced by institutional pressure to conform.

4. The Press as Enabler

Milgram noted that dissent reduced obedience. In a healthy democracy, independent journalism serves as that voice of dissent. Yet during this period, key segments of the media became instruments of reinforcement rather than resistance. Outlets amplified denial, spread disinformation, or downplayed the urgency of climate change.

Rather than exposing the experiment for what it was, much of the media normalized it. The “experimenter” was no longer questioned, and the “learner” remained unheard.

Conclusion: Escaping the Experiment

Russell and Bolton’s analogy between Milgram’s obedience experiments and modern climate inaction is more than a metaphor; it is a mirror. Yet if we accept this analogy, we must also confront the real-world systems that weaponize obedience.

The Trump administration—through rhetorical manipulation, institutional reshaping, and media co-optation—successfully applied the Milgram model to climate inaction. It created a culture in which obedience to harmful authority was normalized, dissent was punished, and truth was deformed to serve power.

To break free from this apparatus, we need more than policy reforms. We need a reinvigoration of civic conscience, institutional protections for dissent, and a collective reckoning with how easily complicity takes root. Only then can we hope to disrupt the experiment now playing out in real time—not in a laboratory, but on a rapidly warming planet.

The stakes, unlike in Milgram’s simulated study, could not be more real.

TODAY’S QUOTE: “Hamilton was Washington’s creature.”

Brad DeLong (Grasping Reality Newsletter)

      “James Madison and Alexander Hamilton wrote, back in 1787, that there had been significant improvements in the science of government since the times of the classical Greeks. Those improvements, they claimed, meant that in modern times democracies no longer inescapably vibrated between tyranny and anarchy. Madison may have believed that. He probably did. I do not know a Hamilton scholar who thinks Hamilton believed it. Hamilton wanted a constitutional monarchy. He backed the republican constitution of 1787 because Washington backed it, and Hamilton was Washington’s creature.”

TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH