I’m seeing a disturbing increase in the calls for a period national service for America’s young adults. It’s questionable whether I’d be subject to it given my age and the variety of proposals put forth, but the very idea pisses me off. From Obama’s proposal to give college-age students $4000 in tuition for an annual 100 hours of national service to this suggestion, the cries to conscript America’s youth to instill in them a sense of value, unity, and selflessness are growing louder.

In a time of growing diversity, there need to be some ways to enhance the experience and theme of unity.

Unity is overrated except to those who place “think and feel as I do” above individuality and personal freedom. Only those with some wishy-washy, feel-good notions of America insist upon unity as a goal. And no offense, Mr. Robinson, but I don’t see much in mainstream America today toward which I want to feel any sense of unity. I’m surrounded by people who make “do-gooder” a derogatory term because they believe that raping my paycheck at its current rate is insufficient, and who, if they had their way, would take 100% of my wages and give me back whatever they felt I truly needed to live, redistributing the rest to those who had no hand in earning it. And you think that the annual tithe to Caesar isn’t sufficient—now my TIME must be handed directly over in service, too? Time, unlike money, is even more precious to me than money, considering I can’t earn more of it to replace that which is lost.

It’s questionable whether teaching people that their own needs, desires, and goals are less important than government’s needs and goals—selflessness—is wise. It’s wise if your desired end result is a drone citizenry willing to mindlessly sacrifice itself to the greater causes of the state. But I can’t say I support teaching anyone that moral character necessitates the subordination of one’s desires and ultimately self-immolation on the alter of the State, even for just one or two meager years.

It’s difficult to relish the idea of bending over for the state in some suck-ass job that pays close to nothing, will give absolutely nothing of advantage on a resume, and could involve submitting oneself to an immoral cause they not only don’t support but downright loathe. (I see no conscientious objector status offered here.) I fully support volunteerism, but you have some balls suggesting that only government agencies are truly worthy of my time. To steal a voting analogy I once saw, being able to choose which government agency to which I’ll submit is a choice between shit and shit with corn in it. Fuck that.

Privatization has hardly proved the panacea that its heralds claimed it to be. Think Blackwater and 100,000 contract personnel flying under the radar in Iraq. Or consider the lengthening file of stories documenting problems in privately run prisons or in education with charter schools. There are some things that are best done by government — that is, “we, the people.”

Privatization is not to blame for Blackwater. In fact, it’s government, not private entrepreneurship that creates the distorted incentives for what we all see going on in Iraq. Ditto privately run prisons, sucking off the endless government tit all the while telling us more prisons are the solution, or education, picking every American pocket to further the brainwashing America’s youth into compliant, servile, mediocre sheep who will continue to support the educational system that created them. Every example you’ve named is inextricably entwined with government, which makes them by definition not private. Quasi-public, if you must, but definitely not private. It’s disingenuous to cherry pick those examples and blatantly ignore government’s influence in those examples. I won’t pretend the private—TRULY private—sector is perfect, but even if you’d mentioned Enron, it’s certain I could pick out half a dozen government actions, mandates, warped incentives, and other government meddling that created and abetted the “privatization” you view as ineffective, corrupt, and worthless.

We, the People, are NOT government, Mr. Robinson. Read the Constitution—its framers couldn’t have been more clear or more adamant that The People and The Government are separate and distinct from one another. Or could you be unaware of this because you’re a product of that fabulous government-sponsored education system, perhaps?

It’s for everybody, at least everybody who is physically and mentally able. Part of the downside of the privatization and the volunteer military has been that we have nearly lost the notion of required anything, of giving back, of playing our part. It’s time that Americans are reminded that “we are in this together.”

No, we aren’t in it together, not when your solution to the problem (more government, more interference) and my solution to the problem (less government, less interference) are polar opposites. I’m sure it gives you warm fuzzies to sit back and think of the beauty in forcing people to give up their time and effort in subservience to the almighty State, all under the pretense of doing good works and teaching them your value system. But I don’t share your warm fuzzies or your value system. We have no unity between us, not as long as you think the application of force is an acceptable means to a shiny, happy end where everyone farts rainbows and perfume.

I don’t ask what I can do for my country; my value system makes it morally questionable to support the state. You’re free to think that makes me a selfish asshole, just like I think you’re a brainless twit. But I don’t ask what my country can do for me, either, other than leave me alone, and it can’t even do that right. You have no leg to stand on when you suggest a stint of required national service would set my values straight and put me on the path to righteous unity and enlightenment.

Volunteering is great. It’s not voluntary work when you force or coerce folks into it with the authority of the State behind you. In short, you and the government can go blow each other to your hearts’ content in this circle jerk of State worship and rah-rah American jingoism. Leave me out of it.

A man stuck his tongue out at me last week.

I’ve been conducting a little non-scientific experiment in which I see how many drivers I can get to smile at me while I ride the bus to work. If it weren’t for the enduring early sunsets of winter in these parts, I’d be trying the same thing on the ride back home, too.

Most folks don’t even notice the bus. A few have noticed, and even fewer have smiled. But last week as the bus approached the point at which traffic always slows to a crawl, a delivery driver stuck his tongue out at me in jest and then grinned. It’s amazing how such a weird little gesture made my day.

It set me thinking about how pleasant the weird and unexpected can be, and how boring the world would be if it were always normal, always safe, always predictable.

And following that thought, Denis Leary’s brief but memorable lines from Demolition Man came to me:

“I’m the enemy because I like to think. I like to read. I’m into freedom of speech and freedom of choice. I’m the kind of guy that could sit in a greasy spoon and wonder, gee, should I have the T-bone steak or the jumbo rack of barbecue ribs or the side order of gravy fries? I want high cholesterol. I would eat bacon and butter and buckets of cheese. Okay? I want to smoke Cuban cigars the size of Cincinnati in the nonsmoking section. I want to run through the streets naked with green Jell-O all over my body reading Playboy magazine. Why? Because I might suddenly feel the need to. Okay, pal?”

Sure, it would make for one bizarre day if I saw someone streak past in the buff covered in Jell-O reading Playboy magazine, but in the end, I’d have to smile at yet another indication that life isn’t always what we expect, and the how the unexpected can make living so wonderfully weird.

And ultimately, it’s so much more refreshing and healthy to revel in that kind of freedom than be offended by it. So here’s a toast to the stranger who brought a shining little moment of oddity into an otherwise dull, mundane commute.

A situation has arisen with a member of a forum in which I participate that tickles the corners of my brain. This man, K, his girlfriend and their new baby were all set to move 1600 miles away to the currently unused home of his great aunt under a verbal agreement to rent the home from the aunt’s children (his first cousins once removed, for those keeping track). They’d given notice with their current landlord, hired movers, and K’s girlfriend had quit her job in anticipation of the relocation. About a week before the great departure, one of the aunt’s sons pulled the rug out from under them by removing his consent to rent the home to them. Apparently this nosy relative had been reading things on K’s blog and MySpace page that weren’t to his liking.

Some things aren’t sitting right with me. Pointing out that K has a new baby, and using that need as a justification for calling the nosy relative a douchebag bothers me. As much as I respect K, their need for a home, new baby and all, doesn’t justify calling this man a douchebag for asserting his property rights in the situation. Need is no virtue to be called upon when attempting to win an battle over property. Need is not a checkmark on one side’s favor.

Even now, a part of me still wants to cry out “But they have a baby!” But if I allow that part of me victory, even in this one instance, then I open the door to weighing the virtuousness of all needs. It’s a struggle to silence that part of me crying out. We all have been taught for too long that self-sacrifice for our brother’s need is as virtuous as his need itself. Sanding out that “conventional wisdom” etched into my moral code isn’t so easy in practice.

(Incidentally, in the interests of disclosure, I’m rereading Atlas Shrugged. I’m at a point in the book where “need as virtue” is discussed at length, which may be why all the unstated references to K’s need bother me. Take that however you may…)

K put his comments out there knowing consequences might one day follow him. Granted, he probably thought consequences would probably come from someone not so close to home. But the beauty of freedom of association is the right to avoid associating with someone for any reason–irksome blogs and MySpace pages included.

And yet, need aside, I can’t get stop thinking this busybody relative is a douchebag anyway. Why?

Perhaps it’s because, while the nosy relative is acting in his own self-interest, he’s doing it for ridiculous reasons…his feelings. He’s trying to scratch an itch by bringing moral indignation into the equation, something that has no place in any rational argument. A rational person would conclude that, so long as K pays the rent on time and doesn’t destroy the property, his views are largely irrelevant. It’s a business transaction in which feelings, hurt or otherwise, have no place, and only a douchebag would make his emotions the centerpiece of his financial decision-making.

Perhaps it’s because the man entered into an agreement without researching the information that might actually concern him, and then, upon actually DOING the research, changed his mind. Were there a written contract in place, I’d be overjoyed to deliver to him the “tough shit” he so richly deserves.

The nosy relative is displaying classic traits of irrational douchebaggery, and I hope his horse loses this race.

Looks like their response to crime and thugs is to turn downtown into Stormtrooper Central. I hadn’t noticed it today, given that my mind is on other things, but I’ll be keeping watch over the next few weeks. I carry my camera with me at all times, so if I get any interesting pictures, I’ll post them.

When P. said he’d show me “the real Montana” that last night, I suspect he was referring to the outdoor scenery, but the quintessential image that stuck with me is this: you know you’re in Montana when you find yourself bouncing around helmetless on an ATV in the wee hours of the morning behind an armed man with a beer in his hand.

Needless to say, I had a blast in Montana this past week. This was my second trip out, and while the verdant Pacific Northwest is still my number one leading lady, I’d be lying if I didn’t say Montana, with her relaxed attitude and carefree lifestyle, is gaining on her.

The first full day there, I didn’t do a whole lot. My car was in severe need of a washing because I appear to have done my utmost to hit every insect in western Montana on the drive out, so after a bit of a lie-in, I drove to town to gas up and wash the worst of the bugs off. Then spent the rest of the day hanging out at P.’s gulch drinking beer and waiting for K. to arrive. I rode up to the gulch with M., which helped to correct the unbelievably wrong directions we took last year getting up to the gulch in the dark. P. threw his meat on the grill for us, and we whiled away the time giving each other shit and slapping away the mosquitoes.

The next day, K., B., and I spent some helpful but self-serving time cleaning up T.’s upstairs apartment so that we weren’t stepping/tripping over things or getting covered in plaster dust. What really struck me was when I found T’s truck keys under a particularly large pile of papers. He hadn’t seemed to be terribly concerned that they had been missing for some time—”Oh, I was wondering where those went.” I know I’d have been tearing my house apart for the keys, but not him. K. and I made a trip to the store for oil soap and a mop, and we polished the furniture (or “we polished his wood”, if you prefer).

After we’d showered all the plaster, dust, and oil off and felt refreshed, K. and I drove up to Gem Mountain to pan for sapphires. For a mere $12 FRNs, you are given a bucket and the necessary tools and instruction, and you’re rewarded with an oddly satisfying mix of mindless activity and small finds. By the end, I’d gotten good enough in my washing technique to get the sapphires into the center of the pan. Because it was near closing time, the line to have our sapphires evaluated for gem quality was pretty long and not budging, so K. and I decided to shine on the evaluation at that time and drive up to Skalkaho Falls. Beautiful drive, interesting conversation, and the serenity that only rushing, bubbling water can provide. Who can ask for more?

On the morning of day three I wasn’t feeling well, so I had another lie-in while K. and everyone else went up to P.’s gulch to help him dig a trench for some piping. I didn’t want to feel entirely lazy and useless, so I mopped T.’s floor with the oil soap. Not sure how much of a difference it made, but at least I accomplished something (and inadvertently gave myself a defense for later when I discovered I was maligned for not digging with everyone else).

When K. got back from the gulch, we packed off into her Element for our reservations on the underground mine tour at the World Mining Museum in Butte. When our tour began, I found myself wondering if we’d inadvertently booked the geriatric tour, as we were by far the youngest on the tour, and two of our fellow tourists had canes and severe difficulty walking. The guide walked us down the hill to a trailer where we were all fitted with hard hats, headlamps and belts with battery packs. Inside the mine, the temperature was 48 degrees, and I was a bit concerned because I hadn’t brought a jacket, but it felt heavenly after the outside heat. We were shown various types of mining equipment, some outdated and some in use, and went far enough in to see the main elevator shaft, which is now flooded with incredibly foul-smelling polluted water. The guide also showed us some examples of the wiring and patterns they use in blasting, and talked about Nonel and detcord, both of which I remember from my days hanging out with the demolition crews at a now-defunct bombing range outside Denver where we all worked.

What struck me most was the map at the mine entrance showing all the various adits, tunnels, shafts, drifts, and other excavations under the city of Butte. The maze extends as far underground as 4 miles, and makes the land supporting Butte look like Swiss cheese. I’m certain the scale makes a difference—it’s hard to tell how far apart all those tunnels really are—and because much of the tunneling is flooded, the water would help prevent collapses, but it was still mind-blowing to contemplate that much excavation under a town. I know the Paris Catacombs preclude the construction of tall buildings because the ground can’t support the weight, and that thought kept running through my mind while I looked at that map. Come to think of it, Butte doesn’t appear to have tall buildings, either…

Then we visited the Berkeley Pit viewing area. On the underground mine tour, we learned that pit operation stopped in 1982, and the pit contains the water from multiple mines in the Butte area. Actually, the area where the mine sits used to be home to several towns built over underground mines. When the price of copper was high enough that open pit copper mining in the area became profitable, the Anaconda Mining Company paid the homeowners off and then allowed them to buy their homes back—just the structures themselves—for $1. The owners would then use the remaining money to have their homes moved, keeping whatever was left over.

K. drove us back to town for a barbecue at a private, seasonal open-air…restaurant? I’m not sure how to describe someone who doesn’t bother with permits, inspections, worker’s comp, or any other nanny nonsense to run an eating establishment and make a little money for part of the year. There isn’t even a roof. But it makes my heart swell to support such an enterprise, and the food was to die for. F. graced us with her incredibly dangerous flourless chocolate torte with a raspberry/strawberry coulee, B. brought a wonderfully mustardy potato salad, and the grilled meat was as excellent as I remember. Later in the evening, someone undertook the Herculean task of herding us all into a group photo with a smattering of guns and birds raised, and one of Dull’Hawk’s “Time’s Up” flags.

Much of the day was spent getting laundry done and wandering around town with P.’s daughter. We’d been warned by P.’s wife that if we ventured up to the gulch, we’d be trapped into putting up the forms for the concrete walls being poured the next day. Whew—bullet dodged.

After laundry and errands, we gathered to watch fireworks from near the house P. used to be renting. It wasn’t of the scale of the shows wealthy folks around Lake Tapps put on every year, but for such a small town, I was impressed at the lengths to which a few residents went for a good show.

After the fireworks died off and everyone bugged out for bed, K. and I drove to Missoula in the middle of the night for food. After staying up ’til dawn just about every night, 11PM was just too early to fall asleep.

This was when it started to get seriously hot around Granite County. Near 100, if I recall correctly. K. and I wanted to see the concrete pouring, so we didn’t bother to shower in that heat and headed up to the gulch. Everyone had set up their chairs in the shade of the pines at the edge of the clearing. The whole thing didn’t get rolling for a couple of hours because the trucks were late, but I took plenty of pictures of P. up on the wall using the concrete vibrator, a source of much sophomoric toilet humor. It is utterly appropriate that the pumper truck had the word “schwing” painted on it.

Tired of sweating our asses off in that weather, we drove back down to town to shower so K. could get her tortilla soup dinner ready. After much herding of cats (again), we got dinner arranged upstairs, and enjoyed a particularly excellent meal. After K. and a local took off for the lake to look for beavers, the rest of us took up a particularly cheap game of Texas Hold ‘Em, a new one for me. My family plays poker often enough, but it’s always dealer choice. P.’s daughter managed to bluff her way into a winning particularly good pot from her father, and the highlight of the evening for me was cleaning P. out in one hand. His ego needed a knock down a peg or two…not that it’ll stay there.

After everyone left, I was far too awake to sleep (again), so I drove to Butte and back just listening to tunes. Butte has all their original mine shafts lit up in red lights at night, and the effect is particularly striking from a distance.

K. and I intended to get back to Gem Mountain to have our sapphires evaluated, and we were hoping to have lunch with E. in Three Forks, so we called to set things up, but couldn’t reach him. Out of the 20-25 sapphires I found, two were flawless and large enough to cut, totaling 2.20 carats. I suspect I’ll have them heat treated to clear up their cloudiness, but I kind of like the idea of having them set in jewelry while they’re still raw. There’s a woman over near the coast I met on an art walk not too long ago that designs and makes beautiful jewelry. Perhaps I’ll save up and see if she can fashion them into something I’d wear.

We tried reaching E. again afterwards without success, so we continued back to Butte to visit Montana Tech’s mineral museum. Holy crap it was hot in there! Not a lick of air conditioning in a room with 25-foot ceilings and far too many windows. For a while, I took pictures of the minerals I found interesting, but then it occurred to me that I should be photographing the minerals I don’t know, not the ones I do. And they had a nice selection, with some displays focusing on valuable types of rock commonly found in Montana.

Because we’d promised to help P. take down the forms that evening, we drove back to T.’s to pick up some stuff and change into work clothes and then headed up to the gulch. Because I’m still touchy about doing anything to damage the new vehicle, I hadn’t driven it up there yet, but gave it a shot that time. As P. put it, I popped its cherry. Handled great, and I didn’t bottom out once.

The weather had graced us with some cooling after another sweltering day, and taking down the forms went pretty fast once the person who didn’t want to work took off. (Oddly enough, this was the same person who made some rather rude comments about me not digging back on Day 3.) With six adults and two kids helping, we got it almost entirely done in about four and a half hours, with a few breaks in between. Towards the end we pulled K.’s car around to use the headlights so we could see. Much of the time we were rewarded with an impressive distant lightning display that the Rockies often provide in the summer.

Afterwards, we sat around in our greasy, filthy clothes and shot the shit. One by one, folks dropped out or passed out, and by three or so, P. and I were the only ones still awake enough not to wuss out on some early morning off-roading. Which is when MY defining moment of Montana that started this entry occurred. Looking at aerial imagery on Google Maps now, I think I’ve figured out where the hell we were, which wasn’t too far from the small lake we were looking for but never found.

We had a couple of mishaps along the way which left me covered in bruises and sore as hell, but I haven’t felt that alive in a long time. For the first time in a long while, I can honestly say I didn’t want to come home. Because the sun was up by the time I came down from the gulch, I didn’t bother sleeping. I just showered, packed, and left. But the latte I picked up in Missoula didn’t wake me up like I’d hoped, so I pulled off at the next rest area and napped for 45 minutes or so.

Now I’m just laundering the grease and dirt off my clothes and thinking of some changes to make and goals to meet in my life. A second home in Montana might be in there somewhere…

Rather than creating incentives to switch to the more energy-efficient compact fluorescent bulbs (CFLs) now common on the market, governments around the globe are adopting various timetables to phase out or ban the incandescent light bulb.

I’m not entirely sold on the case against the incandescent bulb. Yes, they’re energy hogs, with a mere 5% of the energy they consume emitted as light and the rest wasted as heat. (Okay, sometimes that heat isn’t wasted; reptile tanks usually make use of it.) I could conceivably realize some savings in my electricity bill by switching to CFLs entirely.

And I have, to a degree. My outdoor bulbs would burn out once a month because of broken filaments caused by the vibrations from regular training flights conducted by the nearby air force base. Tired of wandering around the house to change bulbs, I switched all my outdoor lights to CFLs, which have no filament to break. And the woman who fixed up my house before I purchased it did install some fixtures that take nothing but energy savers. Other fixtures will take either, and as the incandescent bulbs burn out, I replace them with fluorescent ones.

But (you just knew there was a “but” coming, didn’t you?) I haven’t made the switch completely, and it’s not for a lack of effort. Not every lamp in my house is accepting of the newfangled CFLs. I have two lovely lamps in my living room, each of which takes two bulbs, that stubbornly refuse to play nice with the new ones. I have two halogen desk lamps that also won’t make the switch. CFLs aren’t generally dimmer switch-friendly. I haven’t tried CFLs in my motion sensor lights, but then again, I haven’t seen a flood light or a small candelabra light that isn’t incandescent. When I start having to consider replacing multiple lamps and light fixtures as well as the bulbs in them, the meager cost savings in energy flies right out the open window.

New fixtures? Strike 1 against the CFLs.

CFLs have hefty transaction costs, even when all your lamps and fixtures play nice with them. Right off the bat, they’re damn expensive to purchase. I can buy 8 incandescent bulbs for less than the price of one CFL. And they’re not easily disposed of. You can’t just throw them in the trash–they require hazardous material disposal because of the 5 milligrams of mercury in each bulb. Some hardware stores have take-back programs for CFLs, and in many places, the local dump will take them, but either way, that’s an extra errand for me because I can’t just drop it in the trash or recycling bin and be done with it. If every household were using CFLs, trash hauling companies might begin accepting them at the curb, but I wouldn’t count on it.

And where does that mercury end up? Some studies suggest that despite their mercury content, CFLs would net a decrease in mercury released to the environment because (in theory) fewer coal-fired power plants would be operating, therefore releasing less mercury. Sorry, but I’m not buying it. Because power plants are quasi-governmental, there’s no way they’d be allowed to close solely because of lower energy use. And it doesn’t factor in the amount of extra mercury ending up in the environment because many folks are ignorant of the fact that CFLs can’t be disposed of like regular bulbs, or the danger to your household should one break before you’ve disposed of it.

Mercury hazards and an extra errand just for disposal? Strike 2.

Lastly, color me skeptical that anyone is likely to realize lower electricity rates from energy conservation. Energy rates aren’t subject to the laws of supply and demand, largely because of *gasp!* government interference. Local monopolies dominate the market. If I want electricity, I either hook up to the sole local provider, or I sit at home reading by candle light. I can’t do business other energy company whose practices and rates I find more reasonable. If use and demand fall, rates still increase. As an example, during a particularly dry 2001, Seattle Public Utilities strongly campaigned and encouraged folks to use less water. The public responded favorably by significantly cutting consumption. And at the end of it all, what did SPU do? Because so little water was used compared to projections (which are synonymous with budgets), SPU lost money and needed to raise water rates. I suspect any drastic reduction in energy use would net the same reward. And what incentive does any public utility have to keep energy rates low? When was the last time you’ve seen one petition the public utilities board for a rate decrease?

And not only that, I’m willing to bet the energy savings is a farce similar to the lies that brought us low-flow toilets. Toilet flushing in America is completely insignificant when you consider water consumed by agricultural and industrial uses. Nothing. We could all start doing our business in the woods behind the house, and statistically speaking, water usage wouldn’t go down at all. I suspect, though I have no evidence, that energy wasted by incandescent bulb usage is much the same–an insignificant blip next to energy spent by industry and air conditioning. Why bother with all this if our net gain as a nation is using 0.001% less energy than we did before?

Liars dangling the carrot of lower energy bills and energy consumption? Strike 3–YOU’RE OUT!

So, with the prospect of a phase out of the incandescent bulb looming, I’m doing the only thing I can–hoarding incandescents. It’s incredibly ironic that congresscritters spend so much time talking about creating incentives to become more environmentally conscious, yet the incentive they’re creating now has driven me to do exactly the thing they don’t want me to do–buy incandescent bulbs, in larger quantities than I would otherwise buy. If those idiotic fucks in Washington think I’m going to replace all my unacceptable lamps and light fixtures or spend serious cash having them retrofitted to accept CFLs because “incandescent bulbs are bad, mkay?”, they can kiss my ass.

The more I hear some freedom-minded folk discuss the gloom and doom they’re certain will befall the U.S. (and this post doesn’t address whether any particular doom is likely), the more I observe that a significant number of them take some pleasure in fantasizing about an impending collapse. Is it just me, or is their glee a bit, well, disturbing?

They smugly send around every single article about economic, medical, environmental or social disaster they can get their hands on. They’re overjoyed at every op-ed piece and scientific report which suggests we aren’t prepared for this or that crisis. They repeat every conspiracy theory they’ve ever heard - specifically those regarding foreign efforts to destroy the U.S. - even if logic just doesn’t bear those theories out. And finally they brag about their own preparations, which, while often wise, may still be inadequate and leave them in just as much of a pickle as anyone else.

While I think the U.S. is making her bed, and may someday soon have to lie in it, I personally take no pleasure in the knowledge of the numbers of people who may end up starving and homeless in an economic collapse, or sick and dying in some pandemic, or destroyed in some catastrophic terrorist attack. Perhaps some of these folks have it coming, karmically speaking - particularly those who’ve kept their finances a mess with no thought to the future - but to me, that doesn’t justify dancing around and celebrating their possible misfortune.

Could it be because of the nearly irresistible temptation to point a finger, laugh, and say “I told you so?” Would these same folks, say, point and laugh at a beloved family member who, after smoking for years, develops lung cancer? Perhaps they sound so much like children anticipating Christmas Day because of the tendency for freedom folk to feel so superior to others for their beliefs and preparations. Whatever the motivation, I really can’t say I understand taking pleasure in the possibility of others’ misery, particularly not misery on the scale they’re predicting.

The irony in all this is that these folks are just as much the purveyors of fear as the mainstream media are. Look at today’s news sources. Aren’t we always being told of this violent skirmish, that potential outbreak, a new terrorist threat, some economic woe, a significant rise in crime, impending environmental disaster, or a deadly consumer product? The news routinely packages and sells the fear, and isn’t that the same mode of thought being pushed among the freedom community? What, precisely, do we gain from those we consider kindred spirits telling us to “Be afraid. Be very afraid.”?

One of the toughest things people often struggle with is to push through fear and live with confidence. Community-building and networking with the like-minded helps that, but not when those within want to build fear and misery into the community’s very foundation.

I’d rather not see the end of the world as we know it, knowing how much suffering and unpleasantness (including my own) it might entail, but sadly too many of these freedom folk appear completely unable to grasp the concept of empathy.

Tell me again how we’re the land of the free? How we’re not living in a police state?

US has highest prison population, incarceration rates

A U.S. Justice Department report released on November 30 showed that a record 7 million people — or one in every 32 American adults — were behind bars, on probation or on parole at the end of last year. Of the total, 2.2 million were in prison or jail.

According to the International Center for Prison Studies at King’s College in London, more people are behind bars in the United States than in any other country. China ranks second with 1.5 million prisoners, followed by Russia with 870,000.

The U.S. incarceration rate of 737 per 100,000 people in the highest, followed by 611 in Russia and 547 for St. Kitts and Nevis. In contrast, the incarceration rates in many Western industrial nations range around 100 per 100,000 people.

An unfathomable funk has settled over me the past few days. It all started earlier in the week during a conversation with someone who I’ve considered to be reasonably sensible and appropriately skeptical.

I won’t detail what meandering conversational train lead to this - partly because I can’t remember the entire path it took - but the resulting statement was something to the effect that we all have to have faith in our president and in our country, and if we don’t have faith in either, then we have nothing left. In the journey of conversation, I was accused of being too much of a pessimist - and vaguely conspiratorial - for suspecting the worst of my president and my country, and told that my outlook left no room for anything good. I was told that I have my head in the sand, that I am naive, and it was implied that my views are beyond help or hope.

Yet over the past few days, I’ve realized that I view this opposing position exactly the same way, as a pessimistic and conspiratorial view, naively burying his head in the sand. Without faith in our president and nation, is there really NOTHING left worth living for? Do the actions of one little man a thousands of miles away really more deserving of faith and respect than those close to home and hearth? And truly, is there a terrorist under every rock such that we deserve to be completely stripped of any vestiges of the recognition of our natural rights? Can he really believe that all the powers being usurped by the president stand absolutely no chance of being abused or being used to harm the innocent?

It’s odd, but at a time when my view of all things American is at bleakest, I also have the most profound sense of optimism I’ve ever known. Yes, the noose gets just a little tighter every day, but my eyes are more open than ever before to the number of ways to live outside that noose - to forget the gallows that might await us.

So which one of us is truly the naive pessimist? The one who sees nothing worth having beyond faith in a man in a Big White House miles away? The one who thinks that terrorists really can be found under every rock and behind every tree, such that justification exists for complete abandonment of the Constitution, Bill of Rights, Geneva Conventions, and the Magna Carta? The one who thinks that freedom is worth abandoning through fear? The one who sits contently in his easy chair at night and thinks nothing of the atrocities committed at the hands of our own government?

Or is it the one who believes we’re being quietly, surreptitiously ushered into a police state the likes of which no generation alive has seen? The one who believes we as a nation are reaping the punishments of the international seeds we’ve sewn through decades of meddling? The one who stripping us of freedom to defend us from those who supposedly hate freedom sounds, well, asinine? The one who has great hope for the future, hope born in existence of folks who learn to live quiet, freer lives outside the system?

Do things like love, honesty, trust, honor, faith, and self-sufficiency really stop mattering the second we start to suspect our president is a power-grubbing, evil man who has squandered our fortunes and mightily abused us?

Maybe all this stings more because I’ve always elevated like-minded ideology as an important trait in those I befriend, and these shots come from someone I admire and trust. Maybe it bothers me because what should have been a pleasant conversation ended with strained parting words. Maybe it hurts me that his unspoken message was that jingoistic faith in the president is more important than anything else, than the people that care about him, than me. Or maybe I’m ruminating over the knowledge some topics are now necessarily verboten between us, that we must stick to certain “safe” topics in order to maintain pleasantries.

Whatever it is, the sadness is palpable.

Smoking Ban Prompts Georgia Cafe to Ban Kids, Welcome Smokers

DUBLIN, Georgia — A year after Georgia forced restaurants to extinguish their smoking sections, the sign outside Chuck and Kay Fordham’s diner defiantly invites customers to “Bring Your Butts On In.”

Inside, ceiling fans stir the smell of frying bacon and hash browns and clouds of blue cigarette smoke as patrons puff away over cups of coffee. Butts pile up in the ashtrays on the tables and lunch counter.

Folks who don’t want a side order of secondhand smoke with their eggs and burgers should probably stay away from the Smoker’s Cafe.

The Fordhams found a way around the smoking ban by exploiting a loophole that was created to exempt bars from the law. Instead of banning cigarettes, the couple banned children from their restaurant.

Oh, I’d just LOVE to hear the commentary on this one from the obnoxious parents who worship the cult of the child. “Smoking is a choice… being a child isn’t.” Yeah, well, dining out is a choice, too, you ninnies.

I’ve had significantly more meals ruined by loud, unruly children and their lazy parents than I have the occasional smoker, even before the anti-smoking campaigns really began rolling (pun intended). Even though I haven’t smoked in years - not even the occasional enjoyable cigar - I’d eat there just to patronize a place that, while filled with smoke, lacks screaming children and is making it known that nanny-statism has gone too far.