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A Bridge Over Fear
Oct. 18th, 2020 03:59 pm
Bravery, like Joan of Arc, dies hard. Once the path of bravery is forged, there is no turning back. Perhaps knowing this deep down is what scared me away from brave acts as a young person. Bravery also has its rewards. For me, it has meant having my own wholly independent business, marrying the person I wanted instead of the ones who had money and connections, and various odd rescues and rehabilitations I could not have managed if I had a smaller set of cojones. My bravery has only become extremely difficult to live down in the post-COVID era where cowards have run amok. The universal sign of the coward, the mask, is mandatory in my state of Illinois via the executive order of the current governor, the tax-evading billionaire scion of a hotel empire named J.B. Pritzker. This order was ruled unconstitutional by a court in Clay County, Illinois, but that was but one civil court. On Tuesday, October 20, he crippled the Illinois economy by closing restaurants just as they and the rest of the small business economy were showing faint signs of life. The cowards are currently still winning in my corner of the world.
Cowardice is The Blob
The problem with cowardice is its amorphousness. Cowardice does not stay in its lane and neither do the consequences of cowardice. Mandatory shut down orders were not supposed to take a wrecking ball to small businesses (or were they?), but this is exactly what they did. If large corporations were looking for the perfect way to crush their local, small business competitors in a wholesale orgy of state, city, and county government-backed destruction, they could not have found a better way of doing it than COVID lockdowns. Walmart and Amazon are doing fine. Small businesses like mine are not. I am a music teacher. I have run a successful, one person teaching studio for the last 24 years of my life. I haven’t had this few students since I began fresh out of college. If things stay the same way they are right now through 2021, I will have to close my business. For this reason, I have began to push back against COVID mentality. I slip off the mask when I am in stores. I don’t require the mask inside my business. My protests against mask-wearing have resulted in the alienation of decades-long friends. One former fan of my books took it upon himself to wish disease and death upon me and my family.
Cowardice is amorphous. Every person who wears a mask in public, including me, is a living symbol of submission to an insidious groupthink that is barreling us towards the edge of a new Great Depression. I have begun to push back because it is finally time for normal people to draw the line in the sand. If more people do not act like me, I will lose my livelihood like millions of other Americans. I will join the bread line. I don’t want it to come to that, so I push.
I mentioned that I believe the consequences of cowardice are amorphous. I am also pushing back because I don’t want the karma of those who perpetuated COVID panic. This karma is no small thing. To understand how bad is the looming karma of COVID panic pushers, we first have to look at the ways they have benefited under the current reign of fear.
Curse of the American Salaryman
There’s a certain type of house one encounters frequently out here in the suburbs. The style is boxy and superficially old-fashioned. Typically there are four to five bedrooms on the top story, a two to four car garage, and an association-controlled, postage stamp lot. A facade of fake brick on the front and grey-beige siding on the other sides is common. Inside the house, you’ll find an average American family. There are one to four children (any more is considered a bit weird, but it has been known to happen) and both parents work. Only in the very largest versions of the house can one parent, usually the wife, afford to stay home. The nucleus of these neighborhoods is the local school, which is nearly the sole reason for the insanely high property taxes and home prices all around it. The same cookie cutter houses way out in the country would cost half as much or less, but then there wouldn’t be a population willing to move into them because the school wouldn’t exist out in the sticks. In order to afford one of these suburban boxes of ticky-tacky, you need a combined household income of 100K at the entry level. Not only is this required to get a mortgage, you also need a bunch of extra stuff like insurance, cars, and a family wireless plan.
There is an odd acknowledgement that suburban life is a living hell. In the film Vivarium, a young married couple visit a new construction housing complex with thoughts of a potential purchase. They find themselves stranded in a bland, sunny subdivision called Yonder where all of the IKEA-ish houses are one of two or three models, one of which sports a plaque: Number 9. Quickly learning they are imprisoned in the subdivision, they journey down its eerily empty streets that stretch into infinity. They set fire to Number 9 and do everything possible to escape, all of which is in vain. A package arrives with a baby in it, which the couple reluctantly adopts. Months drag by and the child grows freakishly fast. The young couple, deprived of other people outside of their alien, energy-draining child, quickly grow apart. The husband becomes obsessed with digging a hole in the astroturfed backyard as the wife’s life becomes hopeless, child-centered, automatic drudgery. I won’t give away any spoilers save that the film does not end well.
Vivarium is literally a film about the loathsomeness of the suburbs. The salaryman is the young husband, who digs a hole everyday — obviously symbolic of salary class work — and kills himself before his time to do it. Meanwhile, the young wife is saddled with a completely disloyal, non-human child who throws violent tantrums when his routine isn’t followed to the letter, which to my mind was a subtle way of mentioning the unmentionable: the tyranny of raising a severely autistic child. Isolation and sameness turn what looks pretty enough from the outside into a living hell.
Though it’s not all terrible, salary class life is mostly awful. Like Vivarium, going outside is pointless. There is no connection with nature, only endless suburban sprawl and a job mining astroturf. There is no connecting with other people — salary class work is largely a dog eat dog endeavor. It is empty, hollow serfdom in the service of moronic, capitalist Montezumas who brag to other CEOs about their latest private jet vacation. The salaryman rarely sees his loved ones. His work is a constant game of musical chairs. When another chair bites the dust, he is forced to take on all of the duties of his former co-worker with no additional pay or benefits. His commute? Brutal. Or at least it was before COVID came along.
Escape Via Throwing The Lower Classes Under The Bus
COVID gave the salary class the escape valve they were looking for. For the salaryman, it brought the first opportunity his lot has had in nearly a hundred years to get a regular good night’s sleep. In the case of people my age, Generation X, it has provided relief in the form of suspended college loan payments. Many salary class kids have never spent quality family time with their parents, having previously been preoccupied with a 60 hour week schedule of school, sports, clubs, and lessons. Salary class wives have been granted time with their husbands and children, and for many, a much-deserved moment of appreciation for all they handle while their husband is out busting heavies at the office. The army of working salary class women, like their male counterparts, find it much easier to telecommute and order takeout than to try to do it all. Being a working mom stinks. You’re saddled with the responsibilities of Atlas — you not only win the bread, you have the thankless job of having to make it into healthy sandwiches. To add insult to injury, you’re the one who cleans up the dishes afterward!
For these reasons and more, the salary class is still clinging to endless lockdowns and mandatory masks with everything it has got. Never mind that small business entrepreneurs quickly going the way of the dodo — we need endless funny money so the salaried suburban Costco shoppers can afford their La Croix Pamplemousse Sparkling Water (the snooty LaCroix brand was founded by a Wisconsinite, by the way) and their bulk frozen cauliflower rice. Everyone must wear a mask, including solo bike riders, because there must be the appearance of compliance with fear porn culture at all costs. If you have the remotest aspirations to the salary class — like the former fan of my books who is dirt poor — you had better toe the line.
The salary class and its aspirants do not like to be told “no”, and when someone like me says the N-O word, the reaction is hysteria and death threats. No one is more used to this than Donald Trump. Donald Trump swooped in like Krampus to squash their dreams of Progress in the form of fully automated luxury welfare communism in 2016. They have thrown the most epic of tantrums ever since.
The salary class, as vacuous and detached as the in-dwellers of Versaille in the latter half of the 18th century, has failed to understand the fragility of its bubble. They have already popped much of the frothy economy that dropped a yoga studio on every corner and towns with 13 car dealerships within the same five mile radius. Just as Louis XVI didn’t connect the dots between his own attitudes towards the peasantry with the ill will that separated his head from his body at the guillotine, the salary class cannot comprehend that what’s good for them is not benefiting the lower working classes. The salary classite believes that since she can stay home watching Netflix, so can every else. Let 'em eat cake! The idea that she herself could end up disenfranchised or homeless due to her own disastrous cluelessness doesn’t occur to her, because up until now, there was no limit to the amount she could screw up and have someone (family, friends, government) come in and fix it for her. Now that the salary class and its COVID lockdowns have messed up the economy royally, she does not understand that she is next. She has thrown entrepreneurs like me under the bus and does not see how close the wheels are skidding towards her own well-heeled feet.
What's Next For Fearmongers
I walked away from the social justice left because I think they've got a tsunami of bad karma about to crash upon their shores. I ran a vegan meetup group for ten years. I ended it somewhere around July 2020. Vegans are some of the most toxic Trump Derangement sufferers. Like it or not, my preference to avoid the consumption of all animal products gives the social justice left the idea that I am on their side. I am not. I am a patriot and I'm willing to die for the cause of free speech; they feel differently. They think it is perfectly fine to wish harm (lately in the form of COVID) on Trump and his supporters. I do not wish harm on Nancy Pelosi or the Democrats despite their blatant hypocrisy and obstructionism. I don't wish harm on Hunter Biden, who is blatantly guilty of treason. I don't wish harm on Ghislaine Maxwell, proven child groomer and trafficker. I don't do that anymore because it helps no one, including me. What I do instead is try to act in a way they currently don't seem to be capable of acting: where they freak out, I am calm. When they start flinging bad intentions around, I wish for them to be blessed, as they truly need it.
I think the social justice left and everyone who empowered it via their fear mongering is about to get served. For some, Trump Derangement will be the reason they open their wrists into warm bathwater, regardless of whether Trump wins or loses. It's a classic double-bind: if he wins, the Great Satan has conquered. If he loses, their anti-populist cheating apparatus will have succeeded, leaving them with no boogeyman to resist. The reserves of spite they depend upon for sustenance will have to bubble up from elsewhere. Either way, I believe the consequences rolling out over the next couple of years will be severe for them. I believe TDS sufferers everywhere will find their support networks disintegrated, and their streams of taken-for-granted comfort and wealth interrupted, perhaps permanently. This is only natural law at work: they who spent the last five years asking the Universe to visit misfortune, disease, and death to visit Trump and his supporters will find misfortune, disease, and death barging into their domiciles. They made a grave mistake to wish misfortune on regular people simply for the crime of disagreeing with them.
So many of these people haven't the faintest clue how to be poor. They are not ready for the death of a breadwinner or for a sudden cutoff from family and inheritance money. Making a living has been mouse find cheese to them. They have lived beyond their means all this time, and the last thing they are is Stoic about what they cannot control.
I will be saying nothing to them. I have cut them off; I do not donate to them the privilege of my company. They are welcome to read this blog if they want to know what I think. Nevertheless, if I did say something to my former social justice pals, it would be this: "After spending five years lobbing your own turds at the opposition, don't expect for your yard to be clean and your hands to smell like roses."
Of course I could be wrong. The privileged clingers-on to masks and convenient anti-white race baiting could slide once again, slaloming around the hard limits and sucking off the grift from the same rackets as usual: Big Education, Big Pharma, Big Tech. Only time will tell what new egregores lurk in the shadows, waiting to ride the next wave of mass consciousness. The one thing I do pretty much know is that we should all hang on to our seats, because the next couple of weeks are going to be a rough ride.
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Hi Everyone, thank you in advance for your comments. Please refrain from commenting with profanity: four letter words that start with f, s, or c will result in an unpublished comment. Damn and rhymes with witch are OK.
