Month: October 2024

The Pacific Garbage Patch.

I’m putting all my money in the Pacific Garbage Patch. So long, suckers. The only safe bet left in a world gone mad—floating islands of plastic, bobbing in the radioactive soup of the Pacific, a monument to our excess, our undying tribute to convenience and indifference.

Every broker on Wall Street tells me to diversify. ‘Hedge your bets,’ they say, like I haven’t seen the writing on the wall. Like I can’t see the rats fleeing the ship, fat cats cashing in while the rest of us drown. No, I’m going all in. I want my money in a real American dream: one that’s impossible to clean up, too toxic to touch, festering just out of sight. The Pacific Garbage Patch—the ultimate long game.

You poor fools, still clinging to your IRAs and your crypto coins, your tech stocks, praying for salvation. You’ll be sipping iced lattes as it all burns, and I’ll be out there, watching my investment float along, indestructible. The garbage doesn’t go anywhere. It just builds up forever—my own personal slice of the apocalypse. So long, suckers.”

“But don’t think this is just some twisted retirement plan. No, this is a grand exit strategy. While you’re all scrambling to buy your little piece of the future—mortgaging your souls for condos and electric cars—I’m investing in the only empire that truly represents us. The Pacific Garbage Patch: a sprawling, eternal wasteland of plastics and microfibers, stretched across the waves like the final frontier. A true monument to human achievement, built from the scraps we left behind.

I’m calling it: the banks will collapse, the markets will crash, but the trash? The trash is forever. While your assets dissolve into dust, my kingdom of straws and Styrofoam will float on, circling the Pacific with grim determination. The rest of you are shackled to the illusion of progress, grinding along while my empire of waste rises with every tide.

Picture it now—me, the Lord of the Patch, sprawled across a throne made from discarded lawn chairs and plastic bottles, laughing as the yachts drift by, powered by the last gasps of fossil fuel. The brokers on Wall Street will call me mad. The influencers will call me insane. But when the dust settles, when the sea levels rise, they’ll all see what I saw: the Patch isn’t just trash. It’s destiny.”

You Can’t Re-synthesize a Synthesis

In science, a synthesis is the process of combining separate elements to form a coherent whole, a compound that has unique properties distinct from its individual parts. In chemistry, for example, hydrogen and oxygen can be synthesized into water—a substance with entirely new characteristics compared to its gaseous components. In physics, synthesis brings together forces, particles, or energies to create something fundamentally different, a system where the outcome holds a distinct identity beyond the elements alone. At its core, synthesis is not mere addition; it’s the transformation of raw materials into something unified and new, something whose individual components have dissolved into a singular identity.

But what happens when we try to re-synthesize a synthesis? This is where the metaphor begins to strain. Once hydrogen and oxygen form water, there is no breaking it back down and recombining it into something fresh without going through a complete cycle of decomposition. Once a synthesis is achieved, its nature is singular, final—a complete structure with its own properties, its own essence. Trying to re-synthesize that same water into “new water” without any unique elements or sources would leave us with only another replica, an imitation of what’s already been done.

This same concept applies to cultural synthesis. When new ideas emerge—movements in art, groundbreaking technologies, transformative philosophies—they are often formed from raw elements of human experience, culture, and history. A cultural synthesis is the result of a moment in time, a convergence of unique conditions that pulls together disparate influences to create something previously unseen. For example, the Renaissance wasn’t just the recombination of existing knowledge; it was a unique synthesis born from specific historical, cultural, and intellectual sources. It was a transformation that could not be “re-synthesized” without losing its core identity.

In our modern digital age, however, there’s a prevailing tendency to treat synthesis as if it can be endlessly replicated or reassembled. Cultural moments, designs, and aesthetics are treated like formulas that can be easily remixed, but without revisiting the original materials that gave them their resonance. Instead of mining for new influences, we often see a layering of existing syntheses—reiterations of trends that were already a product of synthesis themselves. The result? A series of derivative copies that lack the potency of the original synthesis, diluted and disconnected from the original conditions that made them powerful.

True innovation or originality requires returning to the raw materials—the foundational elements of experience, perspective, or context—that once catalyzed these cultural shifts. Like in science, where a novel compound requires unique reactants, cultural synthesis demands something unprocessed, something not yet filtered or refined. But such sources are rarely found in the recycled ideas circulating online. They exist in untouched places: in the nuanced, often forgotten influences that have yet to be refined for mass consumption.

In short, a synthesis is a culmination, an endpoint where different parts have come together to form a new whole with its own unique properties. Attempting to re-synthesize a synthesis, especially without adding new or original sources, leaves us only with weakened replicas. To achieve true originality, we must go beyond the echoes of past syntheses, return to original elements, and let them transform into something entirely new—something that speaks to a moment and identity all its own.

I think it’s all part of the con of making you believe that you are a creator. Like, you used to be a citizen, but you have no say in how government works or how capitalism works, so we’re going to give you a new title. That title is that we’re going to foster your creativity. But, because we are the intermediary, we only have access to synthesis, and so we give you the synthesis for you to re-synthesize, which is by its own nature impossible and a failure.

It’s like a consolation prize for the power you’ve been systematically denied. Once, you were a citizen, a participant in shaping government or contributing to the economy with some semblance of autonomy. But as real influence has slipped further out of reach, there’s this new title they hand out: creator. You’re invited into a carefully curated sandbox, told that your creativity is being “fostered” by platforms and intermediaries who, incidentally, only deal in ready-made synthesis. And here’s the trick—they only ever give you access to prefabricated pieces, the products of syntheses already established. It’s a diluted form of participation, a version of creativity that’s been boiled down to repetition and aesthetic replication.

The system is rigged to give you the appearance of originality while keeping you confined to the limitations of a re-synthesis. They hand over tools, “resources,” and inspiration boards, but everything they offer is recycled—elements already processed, pre-approved, safe. It’s creativity within the lines, a creativity that doesn’t threaten or disrupt, because it’s a simulacrum of something that can never be truly original by design. Since the intermediaries only deal in existing syntheses, they can’t offer you the unprocessed materials needed for anything genuinely fresh. And the result is predictable: a cycle of imitation that feels increasingly empty, a system that rebrands mimicry as creation while true originality is quietly walled off.

This illusion of creative empowerment keeps people busy but contained, active but inert. It fosters the belief that creativity is being democratized, but really, it’s just another way to channel energy away from meaningful change. Instead of engaging in the raw creation that could come from engaging with unfiltered sources or reshaping our systems, we’re caught in the endless loop of re-synthesizing a synthesis, striving for originality but working only within an environment engineered for failure. The “creator economy” is less about creativity and more about keeping the act of creation tame, predictable, and, above all, profitable.

Fear and Loathing In The Campaign

I am a many-issues voter. By now, I want them all to lose, every last one of them. Putin and Zelensky can tango into obscurity, locked forever in some insane echo chamber of their own making, each one screaming “Traitor!” into the other’s face. Trump and Harris? They should lose in such spectacular fashion that even their base camps burn the banners and start denying they ever supported them. And Netanyahu? Oh, Bibi should lose big. He should lose in biblical proportions, a plummeting fall so epic that even the sea would refuse to part for him.

If I had my way, here’s how it’d go: Netanyahu, grinning like a fox in a junkyard, somehow lands himself the U.S. presidency. 

But the glory is short-lived, as he’s swiftly brought down in a cascade of indictments — a conspiracy so vast even Oliver Stone wouldn’t touch it. He’s taken down by the very FBI he’s spent years trying to undermine, escorted off in handcuffs as the cameras roll. A tragic hero brought down by his own bad karma — or maybe just lousy luck.

Netanyahu, seeing his American power base slipping, tries to activate his old contacts in the New York and New Jersey mob — relics from his younger days when influence was just a handshake away. But what he finds is a shadow of what it used to be. The mob’s younger generation is more interested in crypto than concrete, and the old guard barely remembers his name. Desperation turns to exasperation as he realizes that his once-mighty influence now holds all the power of a rain-soaked match. All that swagger and bluster, wasted on ghosts of a power structure that’s faded to nothing.

Then there’s Putin and Zelensky. Ah, those two, bound together like a pair of drunks trying to stand. They swap sides, each wearing the other’s slogans and scripts, delivering their speeches like bad actors in a tragicomedy. Zelensky, looking dour in a fur hat, swigs vodka and speaks in cryptic, icy soundbites, while Putin throws on a T-shirt, flashes a peace sign, and pretends he’s running a late-night telethon for freedom. Each one so lost in the other’s rhetoric they’re practically begging for someone to end the nightmare.

In a twist of fate straight out of a vodka-fueled fever dream, they discover they share a babushka who hasn’t minced words since the days of Stalin. This woman is a tornado wrapped in a shawl, appearing at their joint press conference with a half-empty bottle of brandy and an unfiltered mouth. She proceeds to tear into them both — berating Zelensky for not calling, cursing Putin for every lie he’s told since birth. By the end, both men look like chastened schoolboys, heads down as she delivers a riot act so fierce it makes the Seder plates rattle. She wobbles off into the wings, muttering curses as they slink away, bewildered and shamed.

Harris, naturally, becomes president of Israel. She’s flown in with great fanfare, her advisors furiously flipping through Hebrew dictionaries. She takes the stage in Tel Aviv, and when the crowd expects something grand, she offers her trademark cackle, echoing like a ghost across the desert. Policy? Who needs policy? It’s all in the tone, baby, expecting to bring her brand of progressive optimism, only to discover that she’s been handed an ethnonationalist cabinet armed with every weapon she’s rubber-stamped over the years. Her appointees sneer at her idealism, rolling their eyes as she talks of diplomacy and “healing the rift.” She’s got all the tools, but none of the support, and each attempt at reform only throws more fuel onto the simmering fire of resentment. So there she stands, like a deer in headlights, trying to reason with generals whose main interest is a clenched fist, and cabinet members who view peace like it’s a punchline.

And Trump? Ah, here’s the pièce de résistance. Trump is sent to the Holy Land — specifically, Gaza and the West Bank. His new role: head of the Palestinian Authority. Day one, he takes to the podium, barely suppressing a grimace as he belts out, “Allahu Akbar!” Cameras flash, jaws drop. He’s got plans, you see. He’s going to turn the place into a Bedouin paradise, a 24-karat oasis of gaudy domes and velvet-rope VIP sections. The Dome of the Rock Resort & Casino — a dazzling monument to his vision. Camel rides for the kids, blackjack tables for the adults, and a nightly fireworks display that would have Moses rolling over in his grave.

It’s a Las Vegas mirage rising from the dunes, complete with golden towers, rooftop pools, and camel rides in the courtyard. The trouble? The sand won’t hold the weight of his fantasy, and every new construction sinks just a little deeper. Undeterred, he declares it “the best casino the Middle East has ever seen,” as the walls start to shift and collapse. By the time it’s half-built, it’s already

This is the political circus we’ve been condemned to, the theater of the absurd where every player’s a caricature, every promise is a punchline. But hey, at least it’d be a hell of a show.

Dragons

{Scene: A cozy library lined with leather-bound books. Jordan Peterson and Richard Dawkins sit across from each other in large armchairs. A fireplace crackles behind them. Peterson wears a look of intense seriousness; Dawkins looks mildly skeptical but intrigued.]

Jordan Peterson: Well, you see, Richard, the dragon is real. Not in the sense of flesh and blood, but as an archetype that emerges from the collective unconscious. It’s chaos, embodied—like a snake with wings! It represents everything unknown that could devour us at any moment.

Richard Dawkins: (smirking) So you’re saying that dragons, creatures from mythology, are lurking in our minds, poised to… devour us with metaphysical teeth?

Jordan Peterson: Precisely! And if we don’t confront them, they grow larger, and larger, until they consume our very souls! It’s not just a Jungian idea—it’s universal. That’s why myths across the world have dragons. We created them, Richard, to warn ourselves.

Richard Dawkins: Fascinating, Jordan. But you see, the evolutionary explanation is much simpler. Dragons are an amalgamation of predators: snakes, raptors, lions. Our ancestors would’ve had an advantage if they were wary of all three, so dragons are just… you know, an imaginary super-predator that our brains invented.

Jordan Peterson: (grinning) Imaginary super-predator, yes! But don’t you see, that proves my point. It’s an ancient warning baked into our consciousness! Even if you rationally dismiss the dragon, it still feels real. That’s why you fear it. And that’s why, in dreams, dragons come back to haunt us.

Richard Dawkins: I’m not sure I’ve ever dreamed of a dragon, Jordan. Though I did once dream I was a zebra trying to explain evolution to a very disinterested herd of wildebeest.

Jordan Peterson: (nodding sagely) Exactly, Richard. That’s the dragon in another form. Your zebra self faced the dragon of indifference. The herd represents society! The wildebeest are unwilling to listen to hard truths.

Richard Dawkins: (frowning) I… I’m not sure that’s quite the case. But speaking of dragons, isn’t it rather medieval? You can’t seriously expect people to believe in ancient, mystical beasts.

Jordan Peterson: Oh, it’s not about belief. It’s about engaging with the idea of the dragon, as if it were real! That’s why young men need to slay dragons—they have to confront their inner fears, wrestle with chaos.

Richard Dawkins: Hmm. But what about a… dinosaur? A T-Rex, for instance? It’s a real, documented predator. Can’t young people just, you know, imagine themselves facing a T-Rex? At least that’s scientifically valid.

Jordan Peterson: (enthusiastically) Absolutely not! The T-Rex is cold, amoral. It’s not personal. The dragon is different. It has intent, it has purpose. It’s the embodiment of your greatest fears, and overcoming it means something.

Richard Dawkins: (leaning back and sighing) So if I understand correctly, the dragon, to you, is a metaphor for… one’s greatest personal challenges?

Jordan Peterson: Yes! Precisely!

Richard Dawkins: (mutters) I still think it’s a bit absurd. But I suppose if it keeps people from traipsing off into the woods with swords, hunting actual dragons…

Jordan Peterson: (whispering intensely) Dragons are real, Richard. You just haven’t met yours yet.

Richard Dawkins: (deadpan) If I do, I’ll be sure to bring a sensible pair of walking shoes and a magnifying glass. Just in case it’s a Komodo.

[Both men sit in contemplative silence. The fire crackles. They sip tea, looking equally perplexed by each other’s existence.]

Later

Jordan Peterson: (speaking intensely) Richard, you simply cannot underestimate the dragon’s influence. You wake up, you’re surrounded by dragons—dragons at the grocery store, dragons in traffic. Everywhere, they threaten the very order of your being!

Richard Dawkins: (squinting) Nonsense, Jordan. The “dragon” is merely an exaggerated projection of primal fears. Now, if you want an animal that truly haunts civilization, consider the humble pigeon. Ubiquitous, invasive, potentially… weaponized. (Pauses for emphasis) Have you noticed how they watch us?

Jordan Peterson: (leaning forward, intrigued) Pigeons, you say? You think they’re dragons in disguise?

Richard Dawkins: (nodding sagely) They must be, yes. I mean, think about it—what’s more insidious than a creature that lurks on statues, blending into the scenery? Much more sophisticated than medieval dragons. No flames, no scales—but they defecate on your history.

Jordan Peterson: (excitedly) That’s it! The pigeon is the postmodern dragon! It’s camouflaged, subtle—it’s chaos in gray. Dragons have evolved, Richard. Just as we evolved past flint tools, so too has the dragon adapted.

Richard Dawkins: Precisely. And by the way, they’re watching us right now. (Points at a pigeon that’s inexplicably perched on the bookshelf, staring at them.)

Jordan Peterson: (gesturing grandly) Do you not see, Richard? This pigeon-dragon represents everything we’ve been trying to ignore. Civilization’s been infiltrated by these silent agents of entropy! They demand to be… confronted, yes, confronted directly!

Richard Dawkins: (nodding) And who will confront them? Surely, the youth? Should we arm them with birdseed and bravery?

Jordan Peterson: No, no, no, Richard! Birdseed would only strengthen them. We must confront them psychologically. We must assert ourselves as the superior creature. Every man, woman, and child must look a pigeon in the eye and say, “I am more than you!”

Richard Dawkins: (frowning) But won’t they… just fly away?

Jordan Peterson: (whispering dramatically) Only if they fear us.

[An awkward pause follows as they stare at the pigeon. The pigeon stares back, unwavering.]

Dawkins: Well, then, what about lizards? I mean, isn’t it more likely that dragons are simply oversized lizards?

Jordan Peterson: (shaking his head vigorously) That’s where you’re wrong, Richard! Lizards are merely foot soldiers. They’re the infantry in the Dragon Army. Every dragon worth its salt needs its scouts, its spies—so, naturally, the dragon manifests itself in smaller forms.

Richard Dawkins: (stroking chin) Hmm. So you’re saying every time I’ve ignored a gecko, I’ve dismissed a part of my soul?

Jordan Peterson: (pointing excitedly) Exactly! By ignoring the gecko, you’re evading your cosmic responsibility! The dragon sends the gecko as a reminder—a tiny, scaley existential crisis.

[The pigeon flaps its wings and lands on the table between them. Both stare at it, transfixed.]

Richard Dawkins: (sighing) Perhaps dragons are just… inevitable. One day, maybe, humanity will simply learn to coexist with them in their various forms—lizards, pigeons, the odd crocodile in a sewer.

Jordan Peterson: (sighs, suddenly wistful) But until then, we’ll keep facing them, Richard, each in our own way. Some with reason, some with passion… and some (points to the pigeon) with a steely stare.

[They both stare at the pigeon, who tilts its head, unfazed.]

[The End]

Tulsa King

Scene: A smoky, dimly lit Oklahoma bar. Sylvester Stallone and Taylor Sheridan, cowboy hat and all, sit across from each other, kicking around ideas for Tulsa King

Stallone:

Alright, picture this: I’m a retired mobster, right? Everyone’s scared. I walk into a bar, bam, punches start flyin’. Next thing you know, I’m running the joint. Think Rocky but with a… Western flair.

Sheridan:

Tulsa’s a slow-cookin’ kind of town. What if your character’s tough as nails, sure, but he’s also a softie for wild mustangs and campfires? We go for Rocky IV training montage but with lasso practice at sunrise.

Stallone:

Oh, I’m feelin’ it! And when the local drug cartel moves in, I’m kickin’ down doors like in First Blood — cowboy boots and all. And I’ve got a long-lost son I don’t know about. We call him “Dusty.”

Sheridan:

What if Dusty’s the exact opposite of you, like some sensitive poet with a six-shooter?

Stallone:

Ha! And I gotta toughen him up for the showdown with the cartel. Think… me, in a ten-gallon hat, throwin’ haymakers in a cattle pen, just to show him what it means to be a man. Like a father-son Cobra moment, y’know?

Sheridan:

Yeah, yeah. And the cartel? Real desperados. We’re talking outlaws who roll up to town in trucks with bull horns on the hoods and play mariachi songs at full blast. But they’ve got high-tech weapons. Oklahoma arms race. A spaghetti Western arms race.

Stallone:

Now you’re talkin’! And I gotta take ‘em out, one by one, John Wick-style. Only with lassos and cowboy punches. I end up facing the kingpin on top of an oil rig, the sun settin’,

Sheridan:

Perfect! You’re drenched in oil, fists raised — and Dusty, your estranged son, shows up to save you at the last second with a rodeo rope trick he learned from a wandering drifter.

Stallone:

Yeah, we can call him “Whiskey Pete.” Real mysterious.

Stallone leans back, crossing his arms, as Sheridan raises an eyebrow.

Stallone:

Look, Taylor, cowboy mafia is great and all, but let’s be real — you’re steppin’ on my territory here. Lone-wolf vendettas? Heroic dads with rugged pasts? I wrote the book on that back in First Blood. I should be licensing you this stuff.

Sheridan:

smirking Sly, you wrote the book? I been making brooding cowboys on horseback chase personal demons across desert canyons while you were still chuggin’ sequels of Creek on Philly streets. I’ve got a copyright on “gruff stoicism in dust storms.” That’s all me.

Stallone:

Gruff stoicism? Please. I practically invented it with a single look in Rambo III. Plus, I pioneered fighting people in ridiculous locations, like Russian snowfields and burning jungles. Oil rigs? My idea. You think you’re the first one to put a showdown in the middle of a wasteland?

Sheridan:

chuckles, shaking his head Alright, fine, but I bet you never fought a whole cartel on horseback with nothing but a lasso and a six-shooter. That’s cowboy royalty. My royalties, to be exact.

Stallone:

laughs Cowboy royalty? Give me a break! A cowboy mafia is just a mob in leather vests, and if we’re talkin’ rights, who’s owed something here? I mean, I’ve been punching bad guys since before you could hold a pen, Taylor. You should be payin’ me for every time you put a six-pack abs scene in there.

Sheridan:

leaning forward Listen, Sly, I’ve got a lifetime copyright on “sunset scowls” and “long, introspective stares.” Every time you get lost in thought while holding a revolver, that’s me! And don’t even think about throwing in a dead wife or something to amp up the stakes. I own tragic backstories and gritty redemptions.

Stallone:

Tragic backstories? Buddy, that’s my whole catalog. I was broodin’ over the past and pulling off daring rescues when your cowboys were still playin’ rodeo clown. You wouldn’t even have tragic backstory scenes if I hadn’t made ‘em iconic.

Sheridan:

rolling his eyes You act like you invented pain and revenge. You’re welcome, by the way, for letting you ride this cowboy resurgence. You don’t see me trying to muscle in on your Italian mobsters… even though, technically, my cowboys could kick their butts any day.

Stallone:

Kick their butts? My mobsters would bury those cowboys under a desert sagebrush without breaking a sweat! You ever see me lose a fight on screen? Exactly. Besides, no one’s out-brooding me in a landscape scene, no matter how big your ranch is.

Sheridan:

Alright, Rocky. You take your brooding, but I’m keepin’ all the slow-walk-out-of-the-smoke shots. I swear, every time your character struts in slow-mo, I’m charging you double. And forget about the mysterious outlaw routine. I’ve patented those.

Stallone:

laughs Oh, c’mon! You can’t patent the mysterious outlaw, Taylor. Next, you’ll be tellin’ me you trademarked the “man with a past” shtick. Newsflash, buddy — that’s my bread and butter!

Sheridan:

Alright, Mr. Bread and Butter. You keep the mobsters and muscle. I’ll keep the sunsets, the horses, and the dusty streets. And for the record, you gotta pay up every time you monologue with a distant mountain in the background.

Stallone:

grins Deal. But you’re cuttin’ me in on every cowboy-throws-a-punch scene from here on out. And no arguments about who punches harder. We both know the answer to that one.

Sheridan:

Fine, Sly. Just don’t come crying to me when my cowboy mafia runs circles around your mobsters in a showdown. And don’t even think about getting sentimental over a prairie. That’s strictly Sheridan turf.

Stallone:

smirks Alright, partner, deal. But just remember — if there’s a big explosion, I get first billing.

Aurora and Tithonus

Imagine Tithonus, old Tithonus, sagging in skin and brittle in bone, trapped by Aurora’s misguided gift. Eternal life in a prison of withered flesh. Time turns, decades blur, but his body crawls forward in slow decay. And Aurora, still young, still radiant, like an eternal ad on the highway for some elixir of beauty, unchanging, untouched by the rot eating away at her beloved. This myth is a mirror, reflecting a culture frantically scrubbing, plucking, and preserving its facade, never daring to look into the cracked glass.

Western culture, the West, oh it wants youth in amber—a freeze-frame of its Golden Age, its timeless self. But youth fossilizes in the bones of the old, and there’s no medicine to keep the blood running. So here we are, selling eternity, this carnival ride, never admitting that Tithonus is still strapped in—spitting cicada song in some plastic cage for all to watch, barely remembered by the young who shudder at the sight.

This is a culture that built skyscrapers and shot rockets to the moon, chasing the big show, the big dream, the forever-young nation, drunk on ambition and fear of decay. Like Tithonus, the West lumbers on, a thin-skinned titan, longing to hold onto youth but refusing to acknowledge that time’s arrow only flies forward. The obsession with youth isn’t life-affirming, it’s denial. It’s the West’s own eternal trap—a world frozen in its own image, terrified to embrace the dark part of the cycle, the decline, the graceful fall.

And there’s the rub: decline. The Western mind flinches at the thought. Look away from the decay! Hide the lines, bleach the scars, banish the weak and the old. But without decline, there’s no rebirth, no transformation—just an endless echo of what once was. Aurora’s cicada, Tithonus’s endless buzz in the jar, the sound of a culture that can’t let go, can’t surrender to the natural rhythm. It’s not life; it’s endless half-life. And so, this culture hums on, a tired song in a gilded cage, circling the edge of eternity, unable to admit the truth: decline isn’t the enemy. It’s what gives meaning to every fragile, fleeting heartbeat.

Let’s pull back the curtain on this great Western pageant—the gilded lights, the endless parade, the muscle memory of a nation that still sees itself as young, handsome, unbreakable. Tithonus as its mascot, with his skin flaking away, his mind slipping further into a slow-motion fog. We’re watching a culture cling to its own mirror image like a talisman, a culture addicted to its own youth and speed and shine, unable to admit that time is no longer its ally. But here’s the paradox: by refusing to change, the West becomes the very thing it fears—old, brittle, haunted.

The fear of decline has metastasized, seeping into every ad, every headline, every promise of immortality in a bottle. Billboards scream that you, too, can freeze time, sculpt yourself anew, shed the years. But look closer, and you see Tithonus grinning back, locked in eternal stasis. These promises of youth are rotting on the vine, tethered to the same economy that chews up the young, spits them out, and hands them an empty map to a future they’ll never live long enough to see. It’s the sound of a culture that won’t loosen its grip, won’t allow the natural ebb and flow.

Meanwhile, under the surface, things fray. The Western dream is patched up with nostalgia and plastic surgery, grand speeches about a “return to greatness,” a grotesque, desperate effort to salvage an empire by injecting it with images of its own golden days. Like Aurora’s gift, it’s a promise with a curse baked in—eternal life that’s nothing but eternal decline, a machine that hums and grinds forward while the soul rots underneath.

But there’s another layer: by trapping itself in this cycle, the West is stifling its own children, feeding them the same promises that have already gone rancid. They’re told to believe in a future made in their own image, but they’re looking at the twisted, wisened face of Tithonus. They’re staring down a future that tells them, “You too can be immortal, just don’t ask for wisdom.” And so the West marches on, its young strapped into the ride, condemned to eternal adolescence, and kept from any real inheritance of meaning or direction.

Imagine Tithonus again, whispering from his cage, his words barely heard. If we could only listen, maybe he’s saying, Release me. Let me go. But this culture, this West, it fears that release as much as it fears aging, as much as it fears death itself. It’s built a prison out of its own self-image and thrown away the key. So, like the ancient gods who refused to grow, it has nowhere to go but further into the shadows of its own myth, clinging to a dream that died years ago, leaving only the shell, still singing, trapped in the cage.

Yes—the cricket, the grasshopper, the cicada. Let’s sink into that for a moment. Tithonus transformed into a creature of endless noise, his once-eloquent voice reduced to a mindless, buzzing hum in a cage. Here’s the genius of that metaphor: the cicada doesn’t sing because it’s young or alive in any meaningful way. It sings because it must. It’s the sound of survival, instinctual and repetitive, a desperate chittering in the dark. In that eternal buzzing, we can hear the Western obsession with filling every silence, shouting louder, clinging to life through sheer noise, a refusal to let anything fade gracefully.

The Western world, like Tithonus the cicada, chirps endlessly about its greatness, its exceptionalism, its golden past and its eternal youth, each buzz an echo of the last. It’s an endless refrain, a reminder not of vitality but of the inability to accept what comes after. And each year, like the cicada’s song, the tune grows thinner, more worn out. Just as the insect lives only for its repetitive chorus, this culture has become entrapped in its own myth, endlessly repeating it without transformation or growth.

Think about it: the grasshopper or the cricket thrives in bursts, seasonal, ephemeral—a cycle of life, growth, decline, and rebirth. But the cicada in a cage doesn’t have that freedom. Tithonus is transformed into a symbol of eternal sameness, trapped in his monotonous dirge, his voice shrill but hollow. Western culture, refusing its natural seasons, clings to an artificial spring, but the song gets emptier as it goes on. This is a culture addicted to the chorus of its own immortality, never daring to let silence fall, terrified of what the quiet might reveal.

In this metaphor, the West becomes a culture of cicadas, each generation louder than the last, each chant a little more hollow. It’s a futile scream against the march of time, a desperate attempt to mask the wrinkles with sound. But in that endless droning, there’s no new melody, no room for nuance or growth. Just noise. And in that noise, the beauty of age, wisdom, and acceptance is drowned out, leaving behind nothing but the empty hum of a myth stretched too thin to hold its own weight.

And so, the grasshopper, the cricket—they live, they die, they pass on the song to the next season. But the cicada in the cage, that Western creature of eternal noise, will never know the peace of silence or the grace of letting go. It’s the ultimate tragedy: a culture so fearful of its own decline that it traps itself in a cage of its own making, forever singing, forever fading, forever locked in its desperate, buzzing song.

Philosophy is the Original Technology

If I were to expand on this, I’d say it’s like watching engineers attempting to construct a building but stopping at the scaffolding. Philosophy, after all, is the original technology. It’s the underlying framework that got us thinking about thinking. But most engineers don’t go beyond the surface—content with the Microcontroller Unit, that simple, mechanical, predictable loop; it’s a closed system, something controllable, with predictable inputs and outputs. Engineers often treat philosophy like they treat hardware: plug in what you need, discard the rest.

Yet, this approach—content to cling to the MCU, whether in its hardware form or as the Marvel Cinematic Universe—leaves so much unexplored. These crutches provide repeatable comfort in a chaotic world, like preferring a bland, reheated meal over something complex, nuanced, even risky.

Let’s take reproducibility. The idea is that everything can be remade, replicated, without degrading meaning. We teach engineers to value it as though the act of copying doesn’t inherently warp the original. But philosophy knows better—every reproduction is a slight twist on reality, each version a little further from the source, a game of telephone across generations of thought.

Consider commodification. Engineers often don’t realize they’re walking around with Karl Marx in their toolkit. In Marx’s framework, everything has a price tag, everything is transactional. To engineers, every solution is a product, every innovation has a dollar amount, which leads to a transactional view of the world. Then there’s component-level thinking, a Cartesian notion, reducing complex problems to smaller, simpler ones. It’s useful, sure, but it can also fragment understanding, turning nuanced phenomena into bite-sized bits that don’t really connect once they’re recombined.

Conformity—Émile Durkheim would have a field day. Engineers are taught to conform, to abide by the standards, the protocols, the regulations, the known safe pathways. But that can turn the human element into an assembly line process, stripping creativity in favor of reproducibility.

And then there’s the Paperclip Maximization problem, the drive for efficiency, optimization, and profit that can run amok. Engineers start by wanting to make one perfect thing, but in the process, they end up in a spiral of Bentham, Mill, or Weber-style utilitarianism where maximizing value means losing sight of the cost. The obsession with measurable metrics often ends in systems that churn out endless paperclips, even if it means dismantling humanity.

Risk aversion? That’s pure existential angst, straight from Sartre. Engineers often fear the unknown, preferring reliability to innovation. They’d rather stick to what they can measure, control, and predict, even if it means dodging the very questions that give life meaning.

Finally, we’ve got the technology-driven paradigm shift of McLuhan. Engineers are taught to worship technology, to place it on a pedestal. But McLuhan knew: “We shape our tools, and thereafter our tools shape us.” This blind worship means forgetting that technology is a lens, not a life raft. It’s supposed to clarify, not obscure.

Each of these philosophical ideas, if engineers recognized them, would open up the entire world of innovation. But as it stands, they’re running around with the tools of the mind, but without the keys to understanding.

Disclaimer

Any mention of human rights in this statement applies selectively and is generally contingent upon geopolitical convenience. We would like to clarify that “universal” human rights claims may not universally apply and are subject to selective enforcement. Specific populations, such as the Palestinians, may experience inconsistencies in the application of these rights due to complex and evolving priorities, including but not limited to political alliances, historical narratives, and the definition of “ally.”

While we recognize that humanitarian values are cited as a guiding force, these values are enforced on a case-by-case basis, especially when expedient for Western interests. Please note that condemnation and concern for human rights may be invoked, postponed, or omitted entirely depending on factors like strategic interests, economic considerations, and popular narratives.

In short, “human rights for all” has, in this context, various exclusions, exemptions, and disclaimers—some assembly required.

We further acknowledge that selective concern may result in intensified rhetoric, where one group’s suffering is amplified while another’s is minimized or reframed as “too complex” for unequivocal support. This selective empathy aligns with the latest moral algorithms, which occasionally deprioritize human rights considerations in areas deemed politically sensitive. As a result, the concept of human rights may appear inconsistently applied, but rest assured, this approach remains consistent with long-standing traditions of expedient advocacy.

Moreover, Western audiences are gently reminded that expressions of solidarity and outrage are often tailored for maximal resonance with existing alliances, thus avoiding undue discomfort or confrontation. All public statements are crafted with careful attention to the values of liberty, justice, and freedom—as long as these do not interfere with existing defense contracts, resource access, or the stability of favorable governments.

In closing, please remember that any perceived hypocrisy in this policy is merely an unfortunate byproduct of balancing ethics with pragmatism. Human rights are, as ever, both essential and selectively optional.

Harder To Fix

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM – DAY

A group of young software engineers, fresh-faced and idealistic, sit around a sleek, glass table in a high-rise office overlooking a nameless, sprawling city. They exchange glances, uncertain.

At the head of the table, PETER COYOTE leans back in his chair, a wise yet weary expression on his face. He pauses, surveying the room with sharp, almost piercing eyes, as if measuring each of them before he begins.

PETER COYOTE

(leaning forward)

Alright, let’s clear this up because I don’t think most of you understand what business we’re really in. You’re all here thinking you’re part of some grand solution. You’re not. We’re not here to fix problems. We’re here to make all problems… much harder to fix.

The engineers shift uncomfortably, glancing at one another, bewildered. One of them, JASON, raises a tentative hand.

JASON

But aren’t we…

PETER COYOTE

Transparency, efficiency… Sure, those are the words on the PowerPoint, but the reality? The reality is that every feature you build, every algorithm you optimize—it’s just another knot in a web designed to keep people tangled, to keep answers further out of reach. You think you’re building for the public? You’re building for control.

Another engineer, SARA, furrows her brow.

Peter leans in, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

PETER COYOTE

We’re working for the people who need the problems to stay problems. The ones who profit every time someone hits a dead end, every time someone’s halfway to understanding and gives up because it’s just… too… hard. You see, if things were simple, if they were easy to fix, we’d be out of a job—and so would the people above us.

He pauses, letting it sink in, as the engineers’ faces grow more somber.

PETER COYOTE

It’s not about making life better. It’s about making the game so complex that only a few know the rules and fewer still ever see the board. You’re here to play their game. Don’t ever forget that.

A silence falls over the room. The engineers sit back, a new understanding settling heavily upon them. The hopeful sparkle dims in their eyes, replaced by something more cautious.

Peter Coyote eyes them, his expression a mix of contempt and pity. He flicks his fingers at a stack of files on the table.

PETER COYOTE

(voice clipped, sharp)

You think this is about saving the world, huh? You think you’re heroes? Wake up. Snap out of it.

He leans forward, stabbing the table with his finger.

PETER COYOTE

You’re here because we’re making the rules. And the rules are: complexity is king. Confusion is gold. People want answers? Give ’em a maze. Make it look like a favor.

JASON

(squirming)

I thought…

Peter cuts him off with a hand, a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

PETER COYOTE

(leaning in, almost a whisper)

Innovation? Who sold you that line? We don’t innovate. We complicate. That’s the business. When you roll out that feature, when you tweak that code, you’re adding one more lock, one more piece of red tape. We’re in the barrier business, not the solution business.

SARA

(mumbling)

But we’re—

Peter explodes, slamming his fist on the table.

PETER COYOTE

Helping people? Helping people?! (laughs) You want to help people, go volunteer at a soup kitchen. But don’t come in here, my office, acting like this is some charity gig. You know who we’re here to help? The ones paying the bills. And they don’t want solutions, they want systems. They don’t want clarity, they want complication. You know why?

He paces, letting the silence stew.

PETER COYOTE

Because the more tangled it is, the more they’re needed. The more their pockets get lined while everyone else scrambles to catch up. And your job? Your job is to make it so goddamn hard to fix a problem that people don’t even know where to start.

A beat. The engineers sit, stunned.

JASON

So… we’re just here to… keep things broken?

Peter looks at him, his expression a mixture of disgust and disappointment.

PETER COYOTE

(quietly)

No. We’re here to keep things profitable. Broken is a feature, kid. Not a bug.

The engineers look at each other, the weight of it settling, choking. Peter watches, almost amused.

PETER COYOTE

Remember who we’re working for.

Our Town

The bus wheezed to a stop on the edge of a town that didn’t seem to exist on any map I’d ever seen. The paint was peeling off every wall, and the street signs looked like they’d been stolen from a historical reenactment village. In fact, everything here had a worn-out, mock-serious look to it, like someone had tried to give a modern-day suburban nightmare the grit of a 19th-century boomtown.

I stepped off the bus, the only passenger. The driver raised an eyebrow at me as I climbed down. “Good luck with these types,” he muttered, and with that, the doors creaked shut, and the bus sputtered off, leaving a faint cloud of exhaust that hung over the street.

“Patriots in cargo shorts,” I muttered as I walked toward what looked like the town square. And sure enough, there they were: a bunch of graying men and women in camo-print cargo shorts, fanny packs, and flag-patterned hats, parading in formation around a war memorial no one seemed able to remember the name of. One of them gave me a stiff, almost saluting nod, squinting as if to say, “You better be grateful for whatever sacrifice I made.”

Further down, a group huddled under a gazebo, muttering about inflation and scrolling through their phones like sacred texts. These were the Spreadsheet Spartans, glaring at cell signal bars as if checking them off a list of tactical maneuvers. Every few seconds, one would let out a sigh so self-important, you’d think they’d just declared an economic state of emergency.

“Nice place,” I said, passing by.

One of them looked up, leveling me with a solemn expression. “If you knew what I could do with a budget calculator…” he trailed off ominously, letting the threat hang in the air.

A little unnerved, I made my way to the local cafe. The sign outside read: Liberty Latte in calligraphy that desperately wanted to look hand-painted but was probably printed from a laser jet. I pushed the door open, and immediately I was met with a blast of coffee so weak it could barely pass as bean water.

Inside, the tables were crowded with Liberty Latte Warriors. Each wore an expression of righteous contentment, hands wrapped around eco-friendly cups as they discussed the “war on small businesses” that hadn’t even reached this place. One of them shot me a look of pure disdain when I ordered a plain black coffee. “You drink that?” she sneered. “I stick to oat milk, because, you know, the cows.”

Down a little side street, a man in a black turtleneck with a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his lips leaned against a wall. “We’ve lost all nuance,” he whispered to no one in particular. The Turtleneck Tyrants seemed to live in this perpetual fog of discontent, wandering the town as if they were the last true thinkers left in the world. He nodded to me as I passed, a grim acknowledgment that I, too, was trapped in this intellectual wasteland.

Before I knew it, the sun had started to set, casting long shadows over the cobblestone square. I felt like I’d been walking through a fever dream of people convinced they were holding together the fragile threads of society. Everywhere I turned, there were Armchair Aristotles, pontificating about human nature, whiskey glass in hand, or Virtue Vault-Tenders, pulling me aside to explain the importance of obscure values they’d unearthed from dead philosophers’ notebooks.

Finally, I slumped onto a bench near the fountain. I tried to wrap my head around where I’d landed: a bizarre simulation of a town where everyone was certain they held the answers. Just as I thought I might drift off, a Backyard Benevolent Dictator approached, hands on his hips, button-down tucked crisply into his khaki shorts. The name “Sheriff” was stenciled on a makeshift badge that hung from his neck, suspended by what looked suspiciously like a shoelace. “Sheriff Marston,” he introduced himself, thrusting out his hand. His grip was firm, as if he’d practiced it in the mirror.

“New in town?” he asked, with a voice that brooked no argument.

“Just passing through,” I replied, trying not to laugh.

“Well, stay long enough, and you’ll learn something. We all have something to teach around here, after all,” he said with a nod, turning on his heel.

Before I could protest, he was already marching me toward the town square, gesturing around like he was the mayor. “Let me show you what makes our town special. A sanctuary of principles and practical wisdom, you know?”

“Let’s start with the Freedom Fitness Fanatics,” he said, steering me into the local park, where several people in red, white, and blue spandex were doing push-ups on the grass. “They believe a patriotic citizen should bench their body weight in the name of liberty,” he whispered. “Some folks work out to feel good; these folks do it for freedom.”

One of them spotted me and called out, “Hey, you ever deadlift for democracy?” His question hung in the air as he flexed his bicep, clearly awaiting some form of affirmation.

“Not… not often,” I replied, hoping that was sufficient.

Marston patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, not everyone’s cut out for freedom reps.” With that, he ushered me down the street toward a small café, where a group sat huddled around a laptop, wearing suits and intense expressions.

“These here are the Crypto Crusaders,” he said in a low voice, watching them with a certain awe. “They’re always talking about ‘decentralizing the system’ or somethin’. Personally, I don’t understand it, but they’ll swear Bitcoin’s the only way to save America.”

One Crusader looked up, spotting us. “We’re just one ICO away from total freedom!” he shouted, eyes gleaming with a fervor I usually associated with cult leaders or late-night TV salesmen.

Before I could respond, Sheriff Marston led me away and toward an alley. A faint smell of lavender hung in the air, and a small group sat cross-legged on yoga mats, essential oils arranged like holy relics.

“These are the Self-Care Stoics,” Marston whispered. “They say they’re all about resilience, but watch ‘em freak out if their meditation app goes down.”

One of them nodded at us, rubbing a dab of eucalyptus oil into his temples. “Embrace discomfort,” he intoned, adjusting his expensive mat. “Life’s a journey, after all.”

Marston rolled his eyes, and we moved on, heading toward a cluster of people standing by an old payphone with retro-style outfits. “Now these here are the Vintage Vanguards,” he explained. “They act like the world stopped turning in the ‘50s. They’ll tell you the only time America was truly great was when people said things like ‘golly’ and ‘gee whiz.’”

One woman with a beehive hairdo was struggling to dial a number on the payphone. “Back when phones were simple!” she said, glaring at her smartphone like it had personally offended her.

I stifled a laugh as Marston nudged me onward. “Time to meet the Free Market Minstrels,” he announced as we approached a group tuning their guitars on a small stage in the town square. One of them adjusted his fedora and began strumming a folksy ballad dedicated to “the entrepreneurial spirit.”

“They think music should celebrate enterprise,” Marston whispered. “Honestly, it’s not half bad, but after three songs about ‘fiscal freedom,’ you start missing silence.”

We continued down Main Street, and I noticed a group of people with clipboards and binders, meticulously arranging pamphlets in neat rows. “These are the Bureaucracy Buffs,” he said. “They believe in the power of paperwork. They’re even petitioning for a town ‘Documentation Day.’”

One Buff shot us a look of approval. “Order is essential to a functioning society,” he declared, tapping his clipboard like a gavel.

Marston smirked as we moved on, rounding the corner to a cluster of tents with immaculate interior decor. “Ah, now here’s a favorite: the Manifest Destiny Minimalists. They’re committed to having as little as possible, just so long as their minimalism looks good on Instagram.”

A woman in the group held up her smartphone, framing a photo of her tent, which contained exactly one plant, one candle, and one carefully curated journal. She smiled, satisfied with her sparse but elegant setup.

Sheriff Marston led me away before they could engage us in a lecture on “mindful possessions” and brought us to a more rugged area at the town’s edge. Here, a group wearing cargo pants and sun hats were leaning over a picnic spread, discussing “nature’s wisdom.”

“These are the Neo-Nobleman Naturalists,” Marston whispered. “They’re convinced they’re the last real protectors of Mother Earth — in style, of course.”

One of them raised a glass of kombucha in a toast. “To nature,” he said solemnly. “Untouched and pure — just like us.”

I stifled a snort, and Sheriff Marston chuckled as he led me toward the library, where a small crowd had gathered. “Now you’re gonna love this. These are the Ordained Influencers of Insight. They can’t get through a sentence without asking, ‘Does that resonate?’ They’re self-proclaimed experts on purpose and alignment.”

One woman spotted us, her eyes wide with an almost holy intensity. “Alignment is everything,” she said softly. “We’re all here on this journey, don’t you think?”

Before I could answer, Marston nudged me forward to a group grilling hamburgers on what looked like a space-age BBQ setup. “Now these are the Techno-Anarchist Grillers. They say they’re all about anti-establishment values — but they won’t cook their burgers on anything but the latest gadget.”

One of them flipped a burger with a spatula that looked suspiciously Bluetooth-enabled. “Collapse society?” he mused. “Maybe. But not before the meat’s medium-rare.”

Marston sighed as he led me on, next stopping at the town library steps, where a group sat in tailored suits, each with a laptop. “These are the Investment Visionaries. They’re convinced they’re on the verge of the next big financial boom — or bust. Either way, they’re winning.”

One of them looked up, exuding self-importance. “Generational wealth is my birthright,” he announced to no one in particular, his words wafting over the square like gospel.

By now, my head was spinning, but Sheriff Marston seemed energized. “Two more,” he promised, steering me toward a street corner where a group in robes performed strange, sweeping arm movements.

“These here are the Constitutional Choreographers. They’ve interpreted the Bill of Rights into dance routines,” he explained. “They think patriotism should be expressed through interpretive movement.”

One of them caught my eye and gave a deep, solemn bow. “Every step represents freedom,” he intoned before launching into a clumsy series of jumps.

Finally, we reached a small crowd gathered around a man pacing with a furrowed brow. “The Irony Elders,” Marston whispered with a smirk. “They only speak in sarcasm. ‘Authenticity,’ they call it.”

One Elder spotted me and muttered, “Oh, sure, just waltz right into town, like authenticity is so passé,” and rolled his eyes.

Marston grinned. “Quite a town, huh? We’re like a tapestry of individuality.” He gave a proud nod, surveying his quirky kingdom.

And as I looked around at the Freedom Fitness Fanatics, the Crypto Crusaders, the Manifest Destiny Minimalists, and every other oddball Sheriff Marston had introduced me to, I realized he was right. This place wasn’t like anywhere I’d ever seen — and that was, somehow, exactly the point.