The DisEase of PoliTicks

I don’t recall a time when our political divide turned sustainable differences into an uncompromising contention, transforming constructive discussions into combative clashings, turning everyone into savage foes.

This is the fallout of propagating lies and misinformation masked as science and well caring, parading as paternal concern for the willfully ignorant multitudes transfixed by mass propaganda.

The smoking downward spirals of civility and prudence darken our skies.

Poisoning even the most stalwart with its whistling siren song.

Methinks evil communist forces are afoot.

Political anger is the weapon wielded in Washington by both parties and their corporate cronies against We the People, viciously turning us against one another in a souring feud. Bulldozing the foundation of our country, wrecking friendships, and severing family bonds. Creating an ambiance of fret, hate, revulsion, and racism.

Bitten by PoliTicks induces partisan addiction, causing inflammation of the psyche, resulting in myopia and obstinacy.

I am a recovering junkie of the PoliTick venom myself.

It helps to admit.

Recently, I confused a friend’s passionate comment as an attack on my character. I’m ashamed it happened. But as it is, it took that to start the recovery process.

While my friend and I have our differences in opinions, some spanning great distances, there are always bridges connecting us (veganism, for one). His observations and opinions have always given me pause for thought, no matter how antithetical to my enduring thesis of life, theories, and gruesome inevitabilities.

PoliTicks, like religious FanaTicks, is a disease of the mind. Infected, one cannot undermine the psychological ramparts the ego erects to protect its precious notions; no matter how fervently reasonability begs, we ignore.

However, for milder cases, there is a countermeasure.

A self-thrown gut-punch to the psyche.

Resulting in the appreciation of fallibility.

A receptivity for the probability of wrongness.

These finer faculties you gain by exploring a particular from multiple angles. It’s tough, I admit. But this is where varying ideas and respectful discourse comes to play in building harmony. As should the bitter-tasting thought of alienating a friend or family member over some nonsensical bull dung such as our psychopathically infused politics inspire.

My own gut-punch ushers in the next chapter of my life.

In keeping with my innate spirit, seen by the consensus as the repugnant rebellion of individualism, I’m returning to my anarchical paradise of old. The peaceful retreat into living with reduced emotion of circumstances I’m powerless to change. A contented life of de-energized politics, complete with its resurrected suspicion of the State, and every other damn thing that says it wants to help.

I’ll focus on my favorite things: veganism, family, friends, fast cars, firearms, and my misanthropic misgivings.

Too, I may write about health and fitness. Mine in particular, how at sixty-seven I can still do more chin-ups than you.


Feature image courtesy of Matryx at Pixabay

The Bell Rings

“Adieu, the Bell rings, and I must go among the Grave ones and talk Politicks.” ~ Benjamin Franklin

For every thought, opinion, and belief, there is its opposite.

And a lot of conflicted emotions in between.

We can’t all be right.

But we can all be wrong.

I’ve been wrong about several things all my life. I’ll forgo the details.

But in that light I’ve realized a thing vital to personal growth — Kathryn Schulz puts it eloquently in her TED Talk — being wrong, feels exactly like being right.

Until you realize you’re wrong.

From this hindsight perspective, I reckon I’m wrong about some things, still today.

Time will tell.

That, and an open mind.

I didn’t join the right out of allegiance to the conservative party, although I’ve always leaned right in many respects. Things like freedom; free speech; family; firearms; less government; fewer taxes, fees, tolls, permits, and licensing; fewer social programs, and an ennobling system based on meritocracy — to which I’ll add, to both tyrant and slothful dullard, Marxism paints a tantalizing albeit deceptive picture, thus raising its recent popularity whilst waging war on liberty.

Our country is run by psychopathic pedophiles. The extent of immorality we’ll likely never learn, but my gut tells me it’s extensive, earth-rattling. There’s too much circumstantial evidence to ignore, and most of it implicates the Democrats, in both recent popular past and the present occupiers.

So it comes with reluctance that I associate myself with Politicks. But the bell rings, for reasons that threaten our freedoms, and left with no alternative short of expatriation, I’ve joined the ranks of Republicans — possibly the last viable stronghold against the violent socialist burdens threatening our sea to shining sea.

However, we’re not a perfect match.

Oddly enough, for a political party that rants about freedom, many conservatives find veganism (freedom for our fellow earthlings, something I’m emotionally invested in) an object of ridicule, and condemn my lack of religious conviction, and vehemently deny a woman’s freedom of choice — just saying.

But, go figure.

And there’s this, this nagging notion that the two parties are colluding against We the People in a wily attempt to overthrow democracy. A good cop bad cop game. It’s what any capable tyrant would do.

But I could be wrong.

“Proclaim Liberty”: IMPEACH BIDEN/HARRIS

Trump / Noem 2024! Or sooner
Save America Trump 2024

Liberty Bell image courtesy of Phil Roeder

“Did you know the Liberty Bell was named by abolitionists fighting to end slavery?” From the NPS, learn more here.

Where It All Started

It’s 1970.

I’m 16.

And an addict.

Like dragons, I’m psychologically dependent on shiny things. Things like sparkling fast cars, and the shinier and quicker they are, the more my need, not to mention expense.

It began with this ’69 Mustang Mach 1, 428 CU IN, 330 HP, Cobra Jet.

That’s my mother (RIP) and me in my Levi high-water jeans and Bass wingtips. Not exactly a teenage sex symbol, but the chicks dug the car. I don’t think they noticed the groovy shoes. Or me, for that matter.

A friend of a friend painted the Cobra Jet on the rear fenders. I thought it looked hip at the time; not so much today.

Well, all things come and go.

The year was sliding away, and my addiction to shiny fast things became somewhat sedated. A flame diminished but never extinguished, which I attribute to the beginnings of a family that grew into three kids, 7 grandkids, and soon-to-be 7th great-grandchild. See, there was a gal whose fancy I caught after all. She said it was my long legs that attracted her. But don’t let her fool you; it’s not my legs she’s referring to.

Enter 2017…

I’ve been lusting over the new 6th generation Mustangs for a time when suddenly, one day I snapped, a relapse, and I found myself inexplicably at a local Ford dealer. How I got there, I haven’t a clue. But there I was, dazed and spun-eyed, chuckling and salivating over an orange Mustang like a drooling inbred.

Here’s me and the same chick from fifty years ago, posing by our 2016 Pony Car. It’s not a GT 5.0 Mustang, like the salesman tried to sell me, but then who needs 435 HP anyway?

Secretly I yearned.

There was a smile on my face, but inside, I burned with desire: I needed more; more horsepower, more torque, more handling, more RPM, more top-end.

I needed racing strips.

And a shiny black spoiler.

Tinted windows.

Salvation came on a Sabbatical Saturday, January 2, 2021, as I heard angels sing hallelujah from the heavens.

And here she is, the last of the breed, a 2020 GT350 Shelby Mustang. I call her GT VUDO after the engine’s Ford given nickname, Voodoo. She’s a naturally aspirated beast possessed with 526 HP, 429 LB-FT, spinning a flat-plane crankshaft that redlines at 8,250 RPM. (That’s no typo.) Cut loose the rein, and she’ll scream like a banshee and dart like a jackrabbit chased by a Coyote while she cradles you snugly in her grasp.

Orange too.

Whatever happens here on, I’ll die happy: the right woman, the right car, an extended family, and a good home. A man would be a fool to ask for more.

But then, there is the new GT500…

A Penny on the Issues

Capital Punishment

Killing is an ugly business. Yet, might some violent crimes warrant such extremes: death or life imprisonment? How about we keep our hands clean and let the condemned decide for themselves.


Killing is an ugly business. I suppose there are grounds for abortion (though beyond the scope of this post). Regardless, while men might have a voice in the matter, ultimately, it’s not our call.

Gun Ownership

Killing is an ugly business. Even when executed in self-defense, it ain’t pretty. However, the world is insanely dangerous, and if you hadn’t noticed, worsening. Politicians, the elite, the police arm themselves or employ armed guards. Why shouldn’t the average law-abiding citizens possess the right to arm themselves, to defend and protect their loved ones, their property?


Killing is an ugly business and, like abortion, particularly reprehensible against the vulnerable and innocent. Stop eating animals. They have as much claim to freedom as we. Maybe more, because nearly everything wrong on the planet results from our misguided actions and inactions. Not theirs.

Freedom of Speech

Killing is an ugly business, but words are not sticks and stones, bullets, or knives. If speech isn’t threatening, bullying, or downright hateful, and you still find yourself offended or in opposition, get over yourself.


Killing is an ugly business, and the Abrahamic religions own a disproportionate share of both human and animal bloodshed. If someone doesn’t believe the things you do, it’s okay. Okay, as long as they live in peace. Which is contrary among the overly zealous followers in religion—as well as politics.

In Conclusion

It all comes down to live and let live. Simple, right? So why not? Because of human greed, gluttony, selfishness, a hankering for power, resistance to entertaining concepts competing with our cherished beliefs, traditions, and progresses.

—I once knew a thing I thought I disliked. Then I got to know it.

Constant Revisability

I am a contradiction, perhaps.

A hypocrite, it might seem.

The complexities of existence and the constant current of conflicting data in this confusing time of cultural turbulence and global uncertainty leave me to entertain various contradictory notions at once. Thus my views are subject to constant revisability.


They say, as your hour draws near, you’ll regret the things you never did, you wish you had done.

But now, as I reach the end of my pier, I don’t.

I don’t regret not learning to scuba dive, rock climb, or bungee jump off a towering bridge.

I don’t regret not running a marathon, for fuck’s sake.

I don’t regret not traveling the world.

I don’t regret those drunken sexual orgies I never attended. Okay, well, maybe a little.

But I still have regrets. Hard regrets. Regrets for the things I did do. The people I’ve hurt, the animals I’ve killed, the ones I’ve caused harm.

My slights weigh heavy; it’s not a joke—the burden of my transgressions—the sins against the gods, goddesses, nature, and humanity.

So in this life or the next, I can ask no mercy, no compassion for that I’ve denied. I can only but bow my head and acquiesce to the atonement, regret the suffering I’ve caused.


Mindful of the possibility that our conceptions, opinions, and ideas may be flawed is a brave and rewarding act of character building holding unlimited discovery.

To interrogate our demons, question our motives, and hold our precepts accountable, but most importantly, to entertain those premises we reject stays the possibility, the chance, to expand our world but requires courage equal to facing death. It may be a cherished part of ourselves we kill in the process.

The Valley of Promise

Vast, the Valley of Promise.

Narrow the promontory we stand.

To the left and to the right and far into the distance, a harsh, unforgiving span spreads profound with uncompromising daggers stabbed deep in the blood-stained realms.

A frigid, frightful moon injects the slumbering gloom with Death’s blue hue.

Biting winds swirl around, growling like angry, rabid wolves.

Earth grumbles, fraught with heated tensions.

In the Valley of Promise, the impassioned raging Rapids of Accord surge a torrent of icy white caps, eroding the smears of reproach with vicious intent.

Silver mist, a deceptive velvet…

A flower, delicate as the course of eternity, breaks through the crack of reality.

Raven’s Head Stew

Knowing & Understanding

Knowing there’s always more to know is my most daring teacher.
Understanding there’s always more to understand is my most challenging endeavor.

Attaining knowledge, expanding understanding, elevates character in sagacity and virtue. Virtues like compassion. Compassion for the earth, for her creatures. And is why I’m vegan.

The courage of knowledge and understanding undermines the authority of convention, subverting society’s sacred covenant, the Consensus. And is why I’m free.

Raven’s Head Stew