The Fascist International

Unthinkable thoughts? An oxymoron of a concept surely, at least it appears that way to anyone who takes the idea of personal liberty seriously. Any attempt to explain how it became the cornerstone of moral education in the West would be too complex to include in this meditation, but one critical aspect of that potential explanation is simple enough: How a child reacts the first time he catches an adult in a self-serving lie, or more properly, how the child perceives the social significance of that lie, can be far more important than most people think in determining what kind of adult that child will grow up to be.

For reasons that should be obvious to anyone who’s more than an occasional visitor to Dogtown, I’ve long considered unthinkable thoughts to be a false category, one established by tyrants for the sole purpose of controlling the allegiances of their subjects. Given that I’m a more or less direct intellectual descendent of the Enlightenment, my response to them is to quote Immanuel Kant:

Sapere aude! Habe Mut, dich deines eigenen Verstandes zu bedienen! ist also der Wahlspruch der Aufklärung.

Dare to know! Have the courage to avail yourself of your own understanding! is therefore the motto of the Enlightenment.

Unworthy thoughts, on the other hand—those that take the path of least emotional resistance, and in doing so escape into the world before being considered in the full light of all our mental faculties—are real enough. Despite what our pious god botherers demand, they are also common enough and harmless enough in a comparative sense not to be judged as sins by some chimerical Father in Heaven, or some equally chimerical Freudian superego. In fact, to the extent that such thoughts prioritize honesty over our all too common tendency to create a falsely competent persona, they can actually be a blessing.

Which is not to say that they can’t also be embarrassing. Yesterday I deleted my most recent post here—not because I found it indefensible, but because I found it irrelevant. Angry screeds against the enshittification of our public discourse, the arrogance of our billionaire know-it-alls, the ignorant viciousness of our sociopathic president and his followers, and the sorry state of our geopolitics in general are everywhere one looks these days. Adding to them can be tempting, but succumbing to that temptation can all too easily turn into one of those disabling addictions that prove nearly impossible to overcome.

Relying on a purely rhetorical social media-style carping as our sole defense against the lunatics responsible for our current political, economic, and social agonies is in some fundamental sense a fool’s errand, As far as I can see, it isn’t actually helping anyone. By most accounts the crisis we currently find ourselves in as a society is overdetermined to an unprecedented degree. How we think about it is dependent on which aspects of its driving force we believe to be most vulnerable to intervention, and what kinds of interventions we believe are within our power to organize and carry out.

The sad fact is that the current worldwide rise of fascism is itself as much the effect of a crisis as it is the cause of one. Fear is arguably at the root of what’s driving it. The pace of technologically driven social, political, and economic change, the effect on our collective consciousness of an always awake Internet—along with the equivalence of fact and fantasy, truth and lies that it engenders—are more than many people can bear without constructing a comforting narrative they hope will somehow sustain their sense of self. As far as these unfortunates are concerned, the fact that their narrative bears little if any resemblance to the truth is a feature, not a bug. The truth can be painful. An end to that pain is what they’re after.

This is fertile ground for sociopathic influencers, and we’re as up to our eyeballs in them now as we were in the 1930s. Tucker Carlson tells us it’s manly to tan one’s bollocks. Elon Musk, the latest incarnation of Oswald Spengler, declares empathy to be the true cause of the Decline of the West. Donald Trump announces a list of thoughts you may not think if you want a paycheck or any financial help from the federal treasury. Steve Bannon gets out of jail, dusts off his persona, and embarks on a tour of the world’s dictators, checking to see if they fancy him as the Johnny Appleseed of a new fascist international. (tl;dr, they don’t. Elon Musk is prettier, and hands out more money.)

Despite the sheer weirdness of all this nonsense, laughing at it seems uncomfortably like laughing at Auschwitz. What we’re facing seems to me to be something metaphorically akin to the exothermic chemical reactions high school chemistry teachers used to demonstrate by dropping a pencil eraser-sized nub of metallic sodium into a beaker of distilled water. Once such a reaction gets going, the energy it produces makes it self-sustaining. Stopping it before the reagents are completely consumed can only be accomplished by removing energy from the reaction faster than it’s being produced. Depending on the scale of the reaction in question, this can be virtually impossible to accomplish.

Metaphors admittedly have their limits, but if the history of our previous century is anything to go by, calling the rise of a 21st century fascist international an exothermic political reaction seems to fit what I see developing. The more vulnerable bourgeois democracies and their ruling economic classes in the 1930s were so terrified of a socialist international which demanded a more equitable distribution of the wealth their economies produced that they backed a fascist international instead. The irony is that despite how disastrously that turned out, they now look as though they’re preparing to do it again. I’m no Nostradamus, but if I had to assess current geopolitical probabilities, I’d say that it’s very unlikely that their choices this time are going to let us off any more easily than they did at the end of the 1930s. YMMV.

The Dumbfuck(ery) Marches On

Whatever I could think of to say, there’s always someone out there who can say it better. For example:

From Jay Kuo’s Newsletter The Status Kuo, April 3, 2025—

“Economist Justin Wolfers pulled no punches in his assessment: ‘Monstrously destructive, incoherent, ill-informed tariffs based on fabrications, imagined wrongs, discredited theories and ignorance of decades of evidence. And the real tragedy is that they will hurt working Americans more than anyone else.’”

The American Degeneracy

If there ever was any doubt, there’s none now. There’ll be no justice, no mercy, and no place to hide so long as Trump, Vance, Musk, and their coterie of bootlickers, wannabes, and volunteer thugs are running things. Act accordingly.

Electrons and Promises

Money universalized the power of wealth, endowed it with the freedom to extend itself beyond the organizational capacity of soi disant divine monarchies and pious religious latifundia. For better or worse, it drove the ascendancy of the human species to total dominance over all creation. The principle of liquidity which money embodied was a revelation that even Saul of Tarsus would have found transformational, had he not been paying more attention to the delusions of religious fervor than the reality under his donkey’s hooves. Money was a store of value that was easily transferable, infinitely divisible, that permitted superb transactional granularity—a reliable accounting of who had what, and even more importantly, who owed what to whom—this was really what gave rise to the anthropocene.

In the beginning, money was gold and promises, then it was paper and promises. Now it’s capital accounting, which is to say electrons and promises. The bitcoin boo-yah boys understand everything about electrons, but nothing about promises, or the need to keep them if you want the world of human beings to remain stable.

God, or somebody, help us all.

More Historical Rhyming

Trump and Musk are about to do Social Security what Jimmy Hoffa and Frank Fitzsimmons did to the Teamsters’ pension fund. But not to worry, the Republicans will wring their hands for you, if only on those rare occasions when they’re not busy licking Trump’s boots or praising Musk’s moral clarity. And the Democrats? Well, I hear they’ll be glad to help you look under the couch cushions, but only after you guarantee them 50% of what you find.

A MAGA Bestiary

Cruelty, venality, mendacity, sanctimony, ambition, and greed. Also self-delusion. Also ignorance.

Greg Abbott
Samuel Alito
Steve Bannon
William Barr
Maria Bartiromo
Lauren Boebert
Pam Bondi
Don Bongino
Dan Caine
Tucker Carlson
Kenneth Chesebro
Tom Cotton
Ted Cruz
Paul Dans
Ron DeSantis
John Eastman
Tulsi Gabbard
Newt Gingrich
Rudy Giuliani
Neil Gorsuch
Paul Gosar
Lindsey Graham
Marjorie Taylor Greene
Alina Habba
Sean Hannity
Josh Hawley
Pete Hegseth
Paul Ingrasssia
Kay Ivey
Mike Johnson
Jim Jordan
Brett Kavanaugh
Robert Kennedy Junior
Jared Kushner
Karoline Leavitt
Leonard Leo
Brad Little
Nancy Mace
Mitch McConnell
John McEntee
Linda McMahon
Christopher Miller
Katie Miller
Stephen Miller
Stephen Moore
Elon Musk
Peter Navarro
Kristi Noem
Bill O’Reilly
Mehmet Oz
Kash Patel
Mike Pence
Vivek Ramaswamy
John Ratcliffe
Tate Reeves
John Roberts
Kevin Roberts
Marco Rubio
Rick Scott
Jeff Sessions
Roger Severino
Roger Stone
Enrique Tarrio
Clarence Thomas
Ginni Thomas
Donald Trump
Donald Trump Jr.
Eric Trump
Ivanka Trump
Lara Trump
Melania Trump
Tiffany Trump
Tommy Tuberville
J.D. Vance
Russell Vought
Ryan Walters
Greg Abbott
Samuel Alito
Steve Bannon
William Barr
Maria Bartiromo
Lauren Boebert
Pam Bondi
Don Bongino
Dan Caine
Tucker Carlson
Kenneth Chesebro
Tom Cotton
Ted Cruz
Paul Dans
Ron DeSantis
John Eastman
Tulsi Gabbard
Newt Gingrich
Rudy Giuliani
Neil Gorsuch
Paul Gosar
Lindsey Graham
Marjorie Taylor Greene
Alina Habba
Sean Hannity
Josh Hawley
Pete Hegseth
Paul Ingrasssia
Kay Ivey
Mike Johnson
Jim Jordan
Brett Kavanaugh
Robert Kennedy Junior
Jared Kushner
Karoline Leavitt
Brad Little
Nancy Mace
Mitch McConnell
John McEntee
Linda McMahon
Christopher Miller
Katie Miller
Stephen Miller
Stephen Moore
Elon Musk
Peter Navarro
Kristi Noem
Bill O’Reilly
Mehmet Oz
Kash Patel
Mike Pence
Vivek Ramaswamy
John Ratcliffe
Tate Reeves
John Roberts
Kevin Roberts
Marco Rubio
Rick Scott
Jeff Sessions
Roger Severino
Roger Stone
Enrique Tarrio
Clarence Thomas
Ginni Thomas
Donald Trump
Donald Trump Jr.
Eric Trump
Ivanka Trump
Lara Trump
Melania Trump
Tiffany Trump
Tommy Tuberville
J.D. Vance
Russell Vought
Ryan Walters

A Quasi-biblical Revelation

I’ve never been in any doubt about the depth of Donald Trump’s depravity, but I’m familiar enough with German history to understand why half the country voted for him, and why our titans of industry rushed to provide him with the means to fulfill his vile ambitions. I am surprised, though, at some of the people I’m belatedly finding in the miles-long line of fools waiting to kiss his ass.

It’s not just the hypocritical gasbags who’ve been lecturing us for decades about ethics, morality, courage, manliness, and the sanctity of free enterprise. Everyone knows that commoditized list of virtues by heart, and all of us know at least one person who’s made a career out of preaching from it. It’s not as shocking to me as it should be to see them now suddenly burning their own books, scrubbing their own mottoes off the walls, and looking down at their shoes when I ask them why.

No, the people who’ve surprised me are those I’d come to know as decent, compassionate, human beings, who now refuse to defend the defenseless, who turn away now from those in the greatest need with a shrug, with platitudes, with lectures about choosing one’s fights, with supposedly sage advice that one must be patient, that this too shall pass. This won’t do, this won’t do at all. If we want to keep calling the United States the Land Of the Free and the Home Of the Brave without being consumed by shame, this temporizing, compromising, agreeing that black is white, that President Zelenskyy should wear a suit when invited to lick the tyrant’s boots—all this nonsense will have to go. We need to do better. A whole lot better.

Unbidden Bits—February 28, 2025

So now there can be no doubt whatsoever that we’ve finally found a more wretched hive of scum and villainy than Mos Eisley spaceport—1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Trump and Vance in full cry—it’s impossible to imagine a more vile, dishonorable display than they put on today in attacking a man whose mere presence as a supplicant rather than an honored guest is itself enough to shame them. This is a day which will live even longer in infamy than December 7, 1941.

How It’s Going

Politics as usual hasn’t been as usual lately as it used to be. Were he still among the living, even our 20th century Nostradamus, Mr. Orwell, might be surprised to learn that Oceania has finally and definitively lost its war with Eurasia, and is presently hiding the rump of itself under the skirts of a demented real estate developer with delusions of grandeur. Definitely not the Big Brother Mr. Orwell promised us, this one, although the red hat rubes hardly seem to have noticed. Eastasia, meanwhile, is licking its chops, oblivious to its own vulnerabilities, doing its unctuous best to look as inscrutable as western racists expect.

A couple of degrees more of global warming, a nuclear exchange or two between idiot regimes, and even Elon Musk and his sycophant armies might find themselves roasting rats-on-a-stick over burning rubber tires somewhere where angels fear to tread. That, my fellow deeply concerned citizens of the First World, is actually how it’s going, and you didn’t even have to sit through a commercial to hear about it.

What Stays in Vegas

I could hear blast door bolts slotting home behind me, but there wasn’t any use trying to pretend I’d come through before it closed. The woman standing next to the captain’s chair in the center of the hide—short hair, sand camo, half-drawn sidearm—was looking straight at me, her you gotta be fucking kidding me reaction turning lethal before either of us could blink. Except for the obvious crew at stations to my left—I counted six of them—the hide seemed to be jammed all the way to the back wall with raggedies of every age and condition, probably survivors brought down from the ruins of the Strip.

“How the hell?”

“Grepped by your portal north of the Wynn—what’s left of it anyway. You were after someone else?”

“Wasn’t us.”

“Unfunny either way. Any idea who hates us both?”

“At this point? Damned near everyone. Where’s the rest of you?”

“Name, rank, and serial number, all you get.”

The sidearm was all the way out now, the business end glowing. “Think again.”

The air around me rippled briefly like a stone tossed into a pond, and suddenly my whole crew was formed up between us, the better part of a heavy weapons squad already in full on search and destroy mode. “Hold!” I shouted, and well-trained fingers came off half a dozen triggers. “Make a hole.” Pushing a couple of nasty-looking muzzles aside, I stepped to the front. “This is the rest of us. I don’t know why we’re here. Do you?”

She shook her head slowly, the sidearm already back in its holster. “So now what?”

“I’m thinking what our betters call ‘a frank exchange of views.’”

“Works for me. Let me get these people someplace first.”

I nodded. She unshipped a handheld and tapped at it briefly. Somewhere beyond the huddled masses at the far end of the hide an airlock began to cycle. “Okay everybody, 20 at a time into the lock. Gunnery Sergeant Walker there will monitor. There’s secure shelter at the farside end of the tunnel—beds, food, water, and sanitary facilities including showers. Changes of clothing will be handed out as and when. Anyone needing medical attention or prescription meds see the corpsman on duty. We’ll get you back topside as soon as we can.”

Took a while, but eventually there were just us grunts in the captain’s hide—half hers, half mine. We signaled them to stand down while we were off sorting out our uneasy truce.

Her ready room, built for speed, not for comfort. A table with four chairs, a sitrep holo over the center that blanked as we entered. She gestured. We sat. We talked.

“You are?”

“California. 1st Armored Cav. You?”

“Texas. 415th Force Recon out of Corpus Christi. Also a handful of stray Hoosiers and Jayhawkers from that KC sigint battalion got mauled last month up around Pahrump. Some awful shit went down there. Here too. I used to fly over from home with the sigo for a show, now I hate the fucking place.”

“Not really a place anymore, though, is it? Not much left but latrines, body bags, and rubble. I figure we’re just about done here. Some papers’ll get signed, some razor wire’ll get unrolled, a few mines and flagpoles planted. Then the fuckers in charge’ll declare it a demilitarized zone, and anybody left alive’ll finally get to go back home and start over.”

“Yeah, probably got in mind going all ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ for the coastal stringers. Not this time, though, not with all the broken parts getting shipped back home to the folks.”

“So…wasn’t you grepped us?”

“Wasn’t. I been asking myself who pulled it and why, but I keep coming up with nada. If it wasn’t my people, and it wasn’t yours, who the hell else has the mooch to grep half a fucking infantry squad halfway across a city this size with most of what’s left of it still under fire? You want a beer?”

“You got beer?”

“Liberated a dozen cases of longnecks a week ago from a half-wrecked convenience store behind our perimeter. Been doling them out for good behavior, but I’ve still got a dozen or so left. So yeah, I got beer.”

“Bring it, then, and let’s see can we figure this shit out.” 

We never did figure it out. I said maybe some do-gooder NGO put us together on purpose, see if a couple of ground pounders’d make love not war. She said no fucking way, just blind luck we didn’t waste each other on sight. We were still scratching our heads at 1650, when both our handhelds started to flash. Armistice signed, all hostilities to cease at 1700. And that was that.

Around sundown, I raised one of the last two longnecks, knocked it against hers. “I hope you’re right about this time being different. Sad we have to live in hope—probably what guarantees we stay at the bottom of the foodchain where we are. Hope or no hope, I’m thinking I oughta get my people up top before reporting in. Just in case.”

She upended her bottle, drained it, slammed it down on the table next to mine. “Until the next one, then, Califa. ¡Que te vaya bien!”